Split Personalities
by Nuttynube
Summary: Sherlock suffers a traumatic experience. The only thing is that he can't remember it. Soon, John begins to see new sides of Sherlock, and he becomes convinced that there's something very wrong... why else would he be complimenting Anderson? Can Sherlock be put back together, or will the war inside Sherlock's mind ravage the genius until there is nothing but dust?
1. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

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><p><strong><em>Blood… pain… screaming… my screaming… shouting… hands… even more pain… impact… over.<em>**

The world was nothing but a series of never-ending flashes, brief glimpses of reality, and then darkness. Everything was jumping all over the place; time came and went like wisps of smoke. For a minute, I feared that I had gone mad, and I couldn't be entirely certain that I hadn't.

Finally, I managed to open my eyes again, and I was met with a world that had been tinted red. Blood was dropping from the ceiling, smeared across the walls and soaking my clothes. I felt sick to the stomach; it was easily the most blood soaked crime of my career, and yet I seemed to be in the middle of it – involved, instead of the detective. I tried to push myself up, taking note of the fact that my hand exactly matched the bloodied handprints that stained the walls.

I didn't know how any of it had happened, and my confusion only deemed when I realised what surrounded me. Five bodies. They were all brutish men, all at least six feet tall and all butchered. The attack had been both frenzied in its hurry, perhaps as self-defence, and yet clearly the work of someone who had knowledge of this area. The group must have encircled their victim quite closely, enough that I could see the swipe of a blade had felled two of them effortlessly. It was clearly a person who was accustomed to silence; the steadiness of the hand, and not to mention the repeated stabbings long after the fatal cut, indicated someone who had no trouble killing. Perhaps, they even relished it.

The height of the wounds, and the trajectory of their cuts, suggested a person who was reasonably tall and fairly strong, but not excessively. They had enough muscle to fight them off one, perhaps even two, at a time, but the knife was necessary. They had clearly known where to strike for maximum impact.

What had the men been after? Oh, simple; looking more carefully, I found the blood strains across the front of their trousers. There were no cuts to the fabric, so the blood was not their own. The dried semen and undone zips was all the further evidence that I needed. They were rapists.

I removed my gaze from the men and turned it instead to my own predicament. How had I been involved in all of this? Had I helped the victim escape, or stumbled across the crime and tried to intervene? Or, was I on a case. I couldn't remember what had happened last night; I could have been on a case.

I paused. As I had tried to step over one of the bodies, a sharp stab of pain had made its presence known in my side, and I hissed slightly. My fingertips went to the site by instinct and came away web with blood. Realising my oversight, I quickly did an inventory of other injuries. My stomach was on fire, perhaps the men had attacked me before the victim got hold of the knife, my wrists were raw and bloodied, at least two of my ribs were cracked and there was a burning sensation between my legs.

I grimaced at the collective sensation of my injuries, but chose the stab wound to my stomach as my main concern for the moment. If they had pierced the Celiac Artery, I would need immediate medical attention, or risk necrosis to multiple organs. It would only get worse, so I would have to get away whilst I still could.

Looking around, I found the door to my left and struggled towards it, using the wall as a support. Thankfully, it hadn't been locked, and I was able to stumble out into the corridor and towards the entrance, which was open to the night. I tried to move as quickly as I could, but I was tired and aching and confused. It was not a familiar feeling for me.

The night was frosty and unwelcoming, but I struggled onwards for as long as I could. I knew the abandoned office building that I had been in, and I knew there was a train station five minutes away. If I could reach the train station then there would be people, and I would be able to get help.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I berated myself for not thinking to use it. My fingers were numb and clumsy as I pulled it out, quickly bringing it to my ear,

"Lestrade—"

_"Sherlock, why the Hell did you run off earlier? We've been looking for you for hours, and you haven't been picking up—" _He continued to ramble on, but my attention turned instead to the pain in my stomach. My knees buckled beneath me, sending me tumbling to the ground, and my phone fell a few inches away from me. Lestrade must have heard my pained gasp because he asked, _"Sherlock? What's wrong? Are you alright?"_

I fumbled blindly for the phone, unable to lift my head, and finally managed to put it to my ear,

"I need John. I need a doctor, or I'm going to bleed to death in the next thirty minutes." Lestrade was silent for a second, before he said,

_"Where are you?"_

"Trace the call. Same as the study in pink," I said, as I rolled over. I let out a moan of pain, which only seemed to worry him further, "You have my email, and my password is _Bombus hypnorum_. Quickly."

There was the sound of Lestrade rushing around, but I couldn't tell where he was exactly. He was probably just doing overtime,

_"Keep talking to me, Sherlock. Stay awake. What happened?"_

"I don't know." That single sentence seemed to worry Lestrade more than anything, and I could hear him begin to move more quickly, "I blacked out."

_"Does that happen often?" _I shook my head, before realising that he couldn't see me, and said,

"Not since I was young."

_"Please, tell me you're not back on drugs."_ I chuckled slightly, groaning as I felt the first drops of rain against my skin, closing my eyes as the droplets began to crash down upon me,

"You are the last person I would talk to if I was."

_"Got it, I'm coming now. Just stay right there?"_

"How am I supposed to move?" He chuckled slightly, but it sounded choked,

_"You've got me there."_

I coughed, spluttering and gasping for air, as the blood filled my lungs. There must have been another injury, masked by the larger stomach wound, which I hadn't taken into account. Lestrade was calling out my name, shouting at me to stay awake, but it was too late. I finally succumbed to the exhaustion weighing down my body.

The rain felt surprisingly nice in that moment.


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

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><p>Worrying about Sherlock - and his irritating habit of running away from police during cases when I wasn't there - had kept me awake for most of the night. I was supposed to go to work at the clinic today, but I was only just drifting off with a few hours to go. Suddenly, my ringtone burst into life beside me, and I glared at it angrily. The chipper little song had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I was fighting the urge to destroy it.<p>

Grabbing the phone off my bedside table, I glared at the caller ID. I didn't recognise it, but it was probably Sherlock phoning to tell me that he had got in trouble with Lestrade, and I needed to bail him. Tough, he could stay in prison for punishment. I rolled over, trying to get back to sleep, but the phone kept ringing until I gave in and picked up the phone,

"For God's sake, Sherlock—"

_"No, it's not Sherlock. It's Lestrade, and you had better get to the hospital right away?" _I stared at the phone for a second, wondering what Sherlock had managed to do this time,

"What's happened? Is Sherlock alright?" Lestrade was silent for a second, clearly thinking of how to put it delicately for me, before he said gently,

"He's been stabbed." Shock flooded me, and I dropped my phone. It took me a second, my mind blank as I listened to Lestrade shouting my name, before I clicked back into action and jumped to get out of bed. I grabbed my coat and my phone, but didn't even bother getting fully dressed. Mrs Hudson's curler covered head peeked out through the door as I passed, but I didn't have time to tell her what was going on.

It took me a few minutes of running through the gloomy streets, which were only just beginning to show signs of life as people emerged for work, and I grabbed the first cab I could find. I screamed the address, telling him to step on it and he would get all of the money in my wallet. We got there in five minutes, and I sprinted up towards the front doors and over to the receptionist,

"Sherlock Holmes, where is he? Is he still alive?" She stared at me, bewildered by my shouting, but was saved from answering by Lestrade appearing in the doorway,

"I tried to tell you on the phone, but you hung up. He's through here, and he's stable." I nodded, letting out a huge sigh of relief, "Come on, mate. Let's get you a coffee." His hand gently pressed against my back, pushing me down the corridor and towards a coffee machine. The coffee was God awful, but welcome after no sleep and being woken with that sort of news.

A few minutes later we were sat outside Sherlock's hospital room, drinking our coffees, as Lestrade updated me on what little he knew and what had happened the night before, "He'll be alright, John. He's got the best doctors; someone higher up must have pulled some strings."

"Well, that has Mycroft all over it."

"Mycroft?" Greg asked, sipping his coffee.

"Sherlock's brother. You've never met him?" The detective inspector shook his head, looking slightly shocked,

"There's more than one Holmes? That's a terrifying thought. I always thought that Sherlock had just sort of popped out of nowhere, fully functional… well until today." I frowned slightly in confusion,

"What do you mean?"

"Something weird happened when he was on the phone with me. He started coughing up blood, and I thought he was about to pass out, but then... it's hard to explain, but his voice changed. It was like he was a kid all of a sudden; he was crying and speaking with a high-pitched lisp. He kept calling me Greggie. It was weird, John." I stared at him; it was so surreal that I almost wanted to laugh,

"I've never heard him speak like that. Maybe it was the blood loss?"

"I hope so, because it freaked me out, John. That's not even the worst part, though. The worst part was that he kept begging me to make the pain go away, and to make them stop touching him." I could feel my heart beginning to thunder in my chest, and my mouth was dry when I asked,

"Touching him? What did he mean by that?"

His answer was cut off by a doctor emerging from the room, removing his gloves. We jumped to our feet at the same time,

"How is he?"

"Is he alright?" The doctor nodded, putting his hands up to calm us,

"He's going to be fine; the wound wasn't too deep thankfully." He looked at me, "I was told that you are his brother." I nodded instantly, Mycroft had probably phoned ahead, and I would take whatever opportunity presented to find out more,

"Yeah, that's me, Mycroft." The doctor looked slightly sceptical, but nodded,

"He's stable for now. He'll need another transfusion when we can get one, since his blood type is rather uncommon, but physically he'll be fine. Emotionally, however." He looked at me sympathetically, and I knew the worst was yet to come, "You may want to sit down for what I am about to say."

I obeyed automatically, collapsing back into my seat and staring up at him,

"What's happened?"

"I am afraid that we found evidence that your brother may have been sexually assaulted." The whole world was spinning and then there was nothing.


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

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><p>I awoke to the sound of people rushing around the hospital corridors, feet squeaking on sterile floors, and Lestrade hovering nervously above me. He had a fake smile plastered on his face,<p>

"I'm glad to see that you're back to the land of the living." I sat up slowly, head still spinning slightly. His head stopped me, pushing me back down,

"How long was I out?"

"About five minutes." I tried to get up again, but he kept his hand on my chest, "Best not, I think. You're looking a bit green—"

"Well, how would _you_ feel if you found out that your best friend had been… had been _raped._" Lestrade sighed, giving me a slightly disapproving look,

"John, I have known Sherlock for five years. Before you came along, I was the closest thing he had to a friend, so don't think that I am not struggling with this too, because I am. I am very struggling." I felt a wave of shame wash over me and I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face,

"Right, I know. I'm sorry, Greg. I didn't mean it like that—"

"I know what you meant, and it's fine." He helped me sit up, supporting me when I swayed slightly,

"Is there anymore news?" He sighed, suddenly looked very old and weary,

"They were just in there with him, and apparently he's beginning to wake up—"

"Well, that's good."

"Yes, but the thing is that he doesn't remember anything that happened. He's missing about three hours, and he doesn't seem particularly different to how he is normally. They don't think he knows what happens, and they want you to make the decision on whether or not to tell him."

"No." He blinked in surprise, looking at me with a slightly incredulous look,

"John, we can't keep it a secret from him. This is Sherlock, he'll figure it out eventually, and it won't be long. It'll probably only make him angry that we didn't tell him."

"I'm not saying we keep it from him forever. I just don't think now is the best time—"  
>"Then when is?" I glared at Lestrade, frustration and anger bubbling up until I snapped and shouted at him,<br>"I don't know!"

There was a moment of silence, a few nurses and other patients looking at us in surprise, and finally we sighed and dropped out head into our hands, almost simultaneously. I sighed, trying to sort out my thoughts, "I think, first of all, we need to talk to the real Mycroft. He knows Sherlock better than anyone, and he might be able to give us some insight into what happened when he blacked out last night—"

Lestrade nodded, and I was about to get my phone out to ring Mycroft when it began to buzz on its own accord. It was a text from the man himself,

_I am waiting outside._

I got the feeling that Mycroft was probably more upset than he let on when we met him by his car. Sherlock had told me that Mycroft only rings when he can't talk, and if he wasn't talking now then perhaps he was cracking underneath the façade.

He was swinging his umbrella at his side; he might have looked callously nonchalant if it weren't for the bloodshot tinge to his eyes. He must have gotten rid of the tears quickly, before we could see them.

A polite hand was extended towards Lestrade,

"Mycroft Holmes. I wanted to thank you for taking such good care of my brother."

"It was no trouble, Mr Holmes." I glared at the man when he turned to me,

"Your younger brother has been stabbed and is lying in a hospital bed, and you're standing out here?" He raised an eyebrow, tucking his umbrella under his arm,

"I thought I had foregone my bedside privilege in favour of giving you full access. Besides, it is not the first time Sherlock has been at death's door, and it will certainly not be the last. I think the more important question is, why are you out here talking to me, and not in there holding his hand?"

"You know why," I said, choking slightly on the words. He sighed, looking very much like this was not the first time he had dealt with something like this,

"Yes, unfortunately, I do. I would like to ask that you do not reveal the events of last night to him – not now, and not ever."

I gaped at him in shock, and my decision was made immediately,

"How the Hell can I keep this from him? Not only is it wrong and unfair, particularly in the long run when he finds out, but this is Sherlock. He'll take one look at our faces and know." Mycroft shook his head, looking surprisingly sad,

"He will not figure it out. He didn't manage to any of the other times."

I felt like the air had been physically punched out of my lungs, and Lestrade had to voice my unspoken question, since I was incapable of speech,

"Other times? What do you mean other times?" The look on Mycroft's face was carefully guarded, so as not to reveal more than he wished known, but the regret and the sadness was clear in his voice,

"Sherlock and I did not have an easy childhood. Mine was not quite so difficult. Our father suffered from a cocktail of mental disorders, some of which are to blame for Sherlock's own mental condition, and he took an early dislike to Sherlock. He treated the boy like a stranger in our home, and there was only so much I could do to protect him."

"What did he do to Sherlock?" Mycroft sighed, shaking his head,

"I doubt we will ever truly know. Sherlock's mind is unlike anything I have ever seen, a unique combination of symptoms, and he has always been able to remove or repress unpleasant memories. I doubt he will ever truly to get the memories back, and it has always been easier to allow him a kinder life. So, please, be patient and take care of him, John, and he may just be back to his typical self."

I didn't know how to respond, but there wasn't time regardless. He shook Greg's hand one last time, climbed into his car, and left us behind. We exchanged quick, stunned glances, and Lestrade asked,

"So, we're not going to tell him?" I sighed, running a hand through my hair and making a mental note to find a comb from somewhere.

"I guess not, but it doesn't feel right. I feel guilty—"

"But, if it's what's best for him. Perhaps, we should let sleeping dogs lie, and let him forget." I nodded, turning to led him back into the hospital. He kept step at my side, still looking slightly bewildered by the whole situation,

"I just feel like Mycroft's hiding something from us. Something important. I just don't know what it is."

We found the doctor, from earlier, waiting for us outside Sherlock's hospital room.

"I'm sorry to bother you gentlemen, but he's awake and asking for someone – a man called John." I felt a tiny smile tickle the edges of my lips at the idea that I was the first person he would ask for, but I kept it under wraps,

"John can't be here, but I'll go see him now if that's alright. Thank you for everything, Doctor—" He stopped me with a gentle touch to my shoulder,

"There's one last thing. I might be out of line here, but there seems to be something wrong. He's been acting difficult, and there have been a few incidences with nurses. I suggest you tread lightly, or he may get upset." I smiled slightly, apparently Sherlock was back to his usual impolite self,

"I'll keep that in mind." He nodded, before going off to visit his other patients. I took a second to just brief, calming myself, before pushing open the door and rushing to Sherlock's side. He was lying in the bed, fully awake, and staring up at the ceiling with a harsh, calculating expression on his face,

"What happened to me, John?" I took a seat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to take Sherlock's hand. I had found recently that, despite his coldness, he seemed to be a bit of a sucker for physical contact and liked to sit close to me on the sofa, invade my personal space and brush my hand. I thought it would be a contact, but instead the hand was pulled way. I frowned in confusion, but said nothing. He was allowed to be out of sorts.

"You were attacked, Sherlock; you nearly died. Greg and I were out of our minds—" He frowned, and his head lifted slightly off of the pillow,

"I wasn't asking about myself, John. I want to know what happened with the case. I know that I was stabbed and injured in a number of different ways, and that is not news to me. So long as I am alive, it does not matter. I only care about the resolution of the case. Did I catch the men?"

"Do you really not remember? Any of it?" His eyes narrowed further, and he looked close to lashing out, or shouting,

"Of course not, or I wouldn't be asking. Honestly, why are you being so damnably slow today John? And would you stop trying to initiate physical contact." I gaped at him, slowly retracting the hand that I had subconsciously reached for,

"I'm trying to comfort you, Sherlock. After an attack that had clearly traumatised and left you unable to remember—"

"I don't need comforting," he said, dismissively. He sniffed, "I am perfectly fine mentally, and I will recover physically very soon, so you can stop—"

"No, I can't! Sherlock, you were stabbed. They found you nearly dead, and I was worried sick. I thought you were going dead, and I'm your friend. I care about you—" He looked away, nose wrinkling slightly,

"We are flatmates. You have no obligations to me except to pay rent, and that is the way I prefer it. I don't have friends." I could feel my cheeks flushing with anger, and I jumped to my feet,

"Why are you being like this, Sherlock?" He scoffed, picking up the remote to fiddle with the position of his bed, frowning slightly when the new angle jostled his injuries a bit too much,

"This is hardly new to you, John. I am a sociopath. I'm highly functioning, but a sociopath nonetheless. I don't have friends because I don't care, caring is not an advantage and it will not help me to recover. Medicine will help me recover, not your mollycoddling, and quite frankly I'm sick of people trying to convince me that friends do anything except act as a weak point—"

"You're wrong, Sherlock. I don't know what's going on, but this is not you. You're being far worse than normal, and I don't know why. Do you remember something from last night, or something?" His eyes narrowed, slightly curious as to what I talking about, but then he just huffed,

"I merely remember chasing the criminals. I have a decent amount of blood under my nails and enough fatigue in my muscles that I assume I put up a decent fight. Lestrade knows I am fine, but is hovering here without coming in to discuss the case, so I have come to the conclusion that they are in custody. Am I correct?"

"You beat them, yes." I couldn't bring myself to say that he had killed them, as Lestrade had informed me he had, even though I don't think he would cared.

"Good, then we are finished here. Why are you still here, then?"

"I thought we could talk about some other stuff, around the case."

"What is there to talk about except for the work? That is all I care about, and I do not wish to talk about anything else. Get out, I need to go to my mind palace." I dithered for a second, still wanting to talk, but he just snapped, "Get out, Doctor Watson."

The tone to his voice had floored me. I'd never heard him be so cruel, or cold before. Something was definitely not right.


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

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><p>Sherlock was finally up and about of bed, and he was mostly his usual self; he was a little bit cold towards us all, arrogant and condescending, but definitely not as bad as he had been after waking up. Thank God. I don't think I would have managed to <em>not <em>hit him if he had kept acting like that.

He had started to get on the nurses' nerves with his insistence on getting out of bed, bounding about and picking apart every detail of the ward around him; he was bored of him mind. It drove the nurses round the bend, but none of them had been driven to tears as they had on his first day of consciousness.

Finally, after much pestering, I had agreed to take him with me on a brief trip around the hospital, in his wheelchair, so he could see a few more people and entertain himself with his deduction.

We were just passing the maternity ward, Sherlock pointing out a new mother's infidelity, when Sherlock gestured to me to stop beside the long window, which displayed the new-born babies in their plastic cots.

"John, could you give me a minute, please?" I was briefly confused by the use of the word please, but I agreed when he pressed some change into my hand, "Can you get me something from the vending machine?"

I returned a minute later, with a packet of skittles in hand, to the sight of Sherlock no longer in his wheelchair. I hung back slightly when I realised that he was talking to one of the women, who was looking forlorn as she watched her premature baby.

My first thought was to step forward and interrupt whatever insensitive words were spewing forth from his mouth, but I stopped upon realising that he was smiling an his voice was softer and kinder than I had ever heard, "I've always loved babies, and little Chloe's an absolute darling. I can see where she must get her looks; she already has your eyes."

I almost choked on the skittle I had been eating. What did he just say? Why was he being so nice? The woman was in tears, as was usual for conversation with Sherlock, but they seemed to be happy and comforted tears.

"Thank you, that's really lovely of you to say, dear. She's still so small… she was premature you know—"  
>"Yes, I noticed. It's such a shame, but I'm sure she'll be fine. She's clearly a fighter; just like her mummy. Those rosy cheeks look far too healthy for just any a premature baby. She'll be just fine, darling." I spluttered, staring at him in total shock. Darling? What the <em>Hell<em> had those doctors given him? How much pain medication was he actually on?

The woman had burst into grateful tears, and I watched as she wrapped her spindly arms around his middle – which caused him to wince slightly when she pressed on the stab wound – and pull him into a hug. I expected him to shove her away, but he actually pulled her _closer. _He ran a long, white hand through her messy hair and gently shushing her sobs,

"Oh dear, let it all out. That's right, darling. She'll be fine, you'll be able to take her home in no time; everything will be fine." It took a few more minutes of frantic sobbing, but finally the woman's frantic sobbing quietened to small hiccups. He held her at arm's length, but with more tenderness that just simply shoving her back, so he could smile at her warmly. He honestly looked like butter wouldn't melt, "There you go! We all need a good cry once in a while, don't we? I bet you feel much better now."  
>"Actually, yeah. I do feel better. Thank you so much, Sherlock."<br>"You're welcome, sweetheart. I look forward to getting an update when you take Chloe home; you have my email." She nodded, still smiling, and turned to head into the ward.

I was shell-shocked. That was the only way to explain it; I had never seen anything like it, and I stumbled as I tried to rush to support his slightly wobbling body.

"Sherlock, what on Earth was that all about?" He looked over at me and his face split into a smile,

"Oh hello, John, I didn't see you there. Poor love's baby is a bit poorly. I can't imagine what she must be going to… ooh, are those sweets for me? Thanks ever so much, you're such a thoughtful guy." I blinked at him in surprise, but he wasn't finished. He reached out to pinch my cheek, reminding me more and more of my batty great-aunt by the second, "I simply don't know why nobody's snapped you up yet, if I was inclined to find people sexually attractive I would have had you marching down the aisle before you could saw strawberry jam. But you're too good for me aren't you, John. Oh, and shame on me! I never have thanked you for staying by my side."

I was suddenly bundled into a hug, freezing to the spot at the unfamiliar feeling of Sherlock hugging me, or anyone for that matter, "You're a wonderfully kind man, a very special one, and I don't deserve you. Thank you for everything, John!"

"You're… welcome, I guess?" He smiled broadly, patting me on the back,  
>"I'm going to show you my gratitude and take you to Angelo's when we get out of here. Not only that, but I'll stop going out all night and worrying you… and I'll buy milk and clean up after my experiments and do the shopping. Come on, poor Greg will be fretting over where we got to. He takes such good care of me – he always has. I don't know where I'd be if it weren't for him!"<p>

My mouth was hanging open and my brain had gone blank as I simply followed him; quite frankly, there was nothing else I could do. I was too utterly confused. I almost wanted to check that aliens hadn't landed and set up their camp in Sherlock's brain, which certainly seemed more likely than Sherlock just wanting to be _nice._


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

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><p><strong>A Few days later<strong>

Sherlock had been perfectly _tolerable_ for the past few days. It was really starting to freak me out. The nurses thought him a delight, the doctors found him charming and agreeable and both Lestrade and I receive many, many hugs. We were beginning to think the attack had permanently addled his brain, or the doctors had put him on some particularly strong medication – medicinal marijuana was Greg's guess – but the doctor's said it was probably the shock of the attack and he'd be back to normal when he got home.

It was five days before the doctor's decided he could go home, and I had gotten his things ready the day before. Lestrade was carrying the bags and left me with the task of manoeuvring Sherlock out of the hospital wheelchair – they had a policy that he had to leave in it – and into the taxi.

Just as he stood up, a cloud seemed to cross his features and I couldn't help my relief when I realised that he looked just like his usual self, in all his glory. Sharp steely blue eyes flicked around, drinking in the details of his surroundings, and the confusion was obvious on his face,

"Where are we going, John?" I stare at him in surprise; how could he have forgotten? He'd been nagging me about going home ever since he had been admitted.

"We're going home, Sherlock." The answer didn't seem to help him; if anything, his brow furrowed even further,

"But, I've been unconscious for days. Surely, that cannot be a sign of recovery—"

"What are you talking about? You haven't been unconscious for days; I've been talking to you and wheeling you around the hospital. You've been awake, haven't you?" His face was beginning to turn an impossible shade of white and I watched it grow paler with alarm.

Lestrade appeared at my side, having finished loading the bags, and took one look at Sherlock's face before asking,

"Sherlock, are you alright? What's going on?"

He looked up, looking small and terrified for a second, but his face curdled into his usual hard look and all traces of vulnerability and uncertainty dissolved immediately.

"It's nothing. I think I've just been tried; I didn't sleep before the case, and I must simply be more affected by the exhaustion then I realised. I've hardly slept in that bed; the nurses always make their rounds at an ungodly time in the morning. John, you should run a course on how to take vitals without throwing an injured person half out of their bed and making more noise than a stampeding elephant."

He went silent immediately, curling in on himself defensively, and I knew the conversation was closed. I exchanged a worried look with Lestrade, but Sherlock pulled away and stumbled into the cab. He shuffled across the backseat, limply resting his head against the cool glass as we climbed in beside him. He didn't say any more during the drive home, nor when we got him up into 221b at the other end of the journey.

Greg had finally left to head out to work, and I was left with a sullen Sherlock who said nothing for the rest of the day and sulked on the sofa. I tried bringing up topics of conversation from the past few days, but he honestly seemed to have no recollection and I finally had to sit down on the chair across from him an ask,

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" He looked up from my laptop, frowning,

"Bored. I'm trying to find a case; my mind had been stagnant for too long. I need a puzzle, but these are all frustratingly simple." He jumped up from his chair,

"Stop it, you'll rip your stiches—"

"Oh who cares? I would rather tear my abdomen in half then sit here for another minute. I'm going to Scotland Yard. You can either join me, or risk letting me do myself damage in your absence." I sighed, when he put it like that I couldn't really resist.

He had already hailed a cab just the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, texting Lestrade a warning, and he bundled me through the door within seconds. I had wanted a nice cup of tea and then a bit of rest, and I was almost dozing off when we arrived outside Scotland Yard a few minutes later.

I paid the taxi driver as Sherlock raced off into the building, but – when I caught up with him – he wasn't in Lestrade's office as expected. Instead, I found him stood by a water cooler, a ridiculously warm and kind hint in his voice to accompany the wide smile on his face as he talked to… Anderson? What the Hell? He actually looked interested in whatever _Anderson _had to say. No, not just interested, _intrigued.._ I almost slapped myself to be sure that I was seeing it right. He actually laughed at something that Anderson said; the other man was beginning to look increasingly disturbed, but was nonetheless enjoying having the genius hanging off his every word and didn't question it.

I only just caught the end of their conversation,

"So you say that you always wanted to be a palaeontologist? They're fascinating things, dinosaurs." I was almost surprised that Sherlock actually knew what they were. "Why didn't you pursue it?" Anderson shrugged and just sighed,

"My mother always said that men who study dinosaurs get very little female attention." Sherlock chuckled and, for a relieved moment, I thought that Sherlock must have been back to normal. Anderson apparently had the same thought because he visibly flinched, expecting an onslaught of insults, but it never came. Sherlock simply patted him on the shoulder and smiled, sincerely,

"Absolute tosh and nonsense. I'm sure the ladies would have been all over you, Anderson, no matter what you chose as your career path. You're a charming man, and very intelligent, but I think we should count our blessings that you mother discouraged you from pursuing that career since you are an invaluable member of our team. We would be lost without you." Anderson actually sent me a panicked looked over Sherlock's shoulder, the praise beginning to severely panic him, but I just shrugged. I was as lost as he was. "I must dash, I have to see Gregory, but we'll carry on this extremely interesting conversation later."

He nodded at Anderson, smiled on last time, and turned on his heel with his hands clasped behind his back and a cheerful whisper on his lips. He was practically skipping. Anderson was somehow managing to looking both bewildered and warm and fuzzy, like a peach in the microwave, as I ran past him to catch up with Sherlock. The second I drew near, he put an arm around my shoulder, "He's a wonderful bloke, isn't he? Such a brilliant mind."

That settled it. I was going to have to check him for drugs later and, quite possibly, force him to meet with a psychiatrist. Even completely off his face, Sherlock should not think that Anderson had a brilliant mind. It was utter madness.

The arm disappeared suddenly and I turned to see where he had gone. There was a subtle flash to his eyes, as he focused on something down the other end of the corridor, and I followed his line of sight. Sally Donovan had separated from the crowd and I watched in utter shock as Sherlock swaggered towards her with a spring in his step that I had never seen.

She turned just as he reached her, giving him a dirty look,

"Good morning, Sally. You're looking particularly radiant, today." The dirty look cleared slightly, becoming one of slight surprise,

"It's Sergeant Donovan to you, freak." His bottom lip jutted out in a slight pout, catching her off guard, and he said, charmingly,

"Oh, but Sally, I was rather hoping you and I could put our pasts behind us." His head cocked to the side slightly, as if he was noticing something, "Is that new eye-shadow?" She reached up, subconsciously patting the slightly smoky skin above her eyes,

"Uh, yes, it is. How did you notice that?"  
>"How could I not notice when it brings out the beautiful chocolate in your eyes. I never realised how stunning your eyes actually are, Sally." She gaped at him,<p>

"But, how did you know that it was a new shade? How much attention do you normally pay to my appearance?" He smiled, catching her off guard, and a watched a blush begin to creep across her cheeks,  
>"I always pay attention when it comes to beautiful ladies. I thought you would like being told how lovely you truly are. I don't think people tell you enough; I certainly don't. I have been cruel to you in the past, but that was merely due to your associations with Anderson. You can do so much better—" Well that was a change of tune. Hadn't he just been singing Anderson's praises a few seconds before?<br>"What you mean like you, or something?" He smiled, plucking her hand up and kissing the top of it in a way that only Sherlock could successfully pull off,

"If that's what you want, but wasn't what I was referring. You could have anyone. A woman with such a gorgeous face has her pick of men; if you deigned to have a drink with me this lunchtime then I would be blessed, but – alas – I do not deserve you. You are far too good for me."

Perhaps it was him saying that she was better than him, perhaps it was the smooth talking flattery, but Sally Donovan actually melted and blushed, as he continued, "Might I ask for you to accompany me for a short meal now, Sally? It would be on me, of course. I know the most charming little place, and you deserve only the best." She blinked in surprise, still trying to figure out if he was being genuine or trying to make her look like a fool,

"Okay, that would be wonderful, Sherlock."

His face abruptly split into a very wide, genuine smile, and he offered her his arms with a bow of his head,

"Let us not wait a moment then, my beautiful companion. John, would you be so kind as to let Lestrade know what has happened and where Sally and I are going." They were gone, Sherlock taking Sally's bag for her like a true gentleman, before I could answer. I watched them go and muttered to myself,

"Oh don't worry. I'll be telling _everyone _what just happened here."

#

It was over an hour before they finally came back, I was sat in Lestrade's office getting a brief of the details for a case from Anderson, so I could update Sherlock if he didn't come back. Finally, he stumbled into Lestrade's office with Sally on his arm; they were both giggling like children, and their eyes were wide and flashing with delight. Donovan's lipstick was smeared slightly across swollen lips, some was even smudged across Sherlock's cheek, and their clothes were rumpled.

Lestrade ignored Sherlock for a second, focusing his attention on Donovan instead,

"Donovan, you're stinking drunk! Get out of my office and don't come back until you sober up!" She smirked slightly and then, to the shock of everyone in the room, leant up and kissed Sherlock on the sharp cheekbone, lingering a little too long for our comfort,

"Thanks for lunch… and everything else, Sherlock. Anytime you want to do it again, let me know."

When Sherlock turned back to us, an obvious puckered shape of lips imprinted in lipstick on his cheek, we were all staring at him. All except Anderson, who was fuming,

"What the _Hell_?" Sally ignored him, giving Sherlock one last flirty look and then disappearing. Anderson squared off to my flatmate, a thunderous look on his face, "For God's sake, don't you realise that Donovan and I have been together for almost a year?" Sherlock's entire face softened, becoming sickeningly sweet,

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realise you still had feelings like that for Sally. As much as I had hoped it wasn't so – for her sake – I had rather thought that Sally was just a bit on the side. I am so sorry Anderson. I hope I haven't hurt your feelings too much. I was just caught up in the moment with a beautiful, and might I add lovely, woman. She really is a very special person."

Lestrade looked at me over their shoulders; Anderson was still furious and getting closer and closer to the apologising detective every second. The DI mouthed at me, in obvious bemusement, _'What's going on?"_ I didn't have an answer. Even if I did, I wouldn't have had time to respond before Anderson grabbed the slightly upturned collars of Sherlock's coat and pulled him down to his face, hissing at Sherlock,

"What the hell is wrong with you? Of course you knew we were together! You're… you! You knew we were together and you took her from me anyway, even though I've been with her for a year, and I love her."

It was as if Sherlock's entire persona changed and a shadow passed over him. Suddenly, he wasn't kind and apologetic. He wasn't even normal Sherlock. He looked… evil, for lack of a better word, and he smirked with obvious satisfaction as he saw Anderson's pain,

"And yet she went with me so quickly… what does that say about your sexual prowess? I think even you know that she's far too good for you—"  
>"And you think you're a better match? You're a psychopath!"<br>"Indeed, perhaps I am." I frowned; hadn't Sherlock always been so adamant that he was sociopath rather than a psychopath. What had caused that change in tone? "Or, maybe it's just this part of me. I must say it's a lot of fun. Sally was just another part of the conquest, and it was quite delectable. Who knew shagging in a pub toilet could be so much fun?"

"You—you what?"

"Shagged. You know, I sat on the toilet seat and she got on top. I do like a woman on top, and then up against the wall." I felt a bit ill. I doubted I would ever look at Donovan in the same way again. "It was rather enjoyable, but do let her down lightly. I don't do seconds. Or don't let her down lightly, I really don't care."

Anderson took a swing at Sherlock but, sobering instantly, my friend caught his punch with such speed that I barely saw him move. His face didn't even change from that same taunting look. He pushed Anderson back with a nonchalant flick of his own wrist and raised an eyebrow,

"Don't be a fool Anderson, or at least, not more of one than usual. You do realise the entire Yard thinks you're a joke don't you? Sally told me she thought you were pitiful, and then proceeded to shout out my name quite a few times. She may even have told me, more than once, that I was the best she'd had… and it was the first time I'd done it. Pitiful effort on your part I think—"

Anderson took another swing and Sherlock ducked out of his way. The way that he chuckled, his voice light and teasing and his eyes wild, almost reminded me of Moriarty. "Ooh, temper temper! Come on, put your weight behind it and really try. You might even put a bruise on me if you use all your strength."

The other man lunged, but in one fluid motion – before Lestrade or I could stop it – Sherlock had flipped the man and pressed him into the Detective Inspector's desk. His gloved hand clamped around the man's scrawny neck, choking him,

"Pitiful, it really is. At least with those men a few days ago there's was at least some fight. They almost beat me, before I gutted them like fish, but you? You're like that tiny kitten I held under a bucket of water when I was little. A couple of scratches, a few hisses… and then the bubbles stopped. Bloop… bloop… nothing. So dull."

He relinquished his grasp and left Anderson gasping and coughing, stepping away to adjust the front of his shirt. Once he looked normal, he walked slowly and calmly past the two of us, as we stared at him aghast,

"Well, I have to take care of a delivery. John, if you would be so kind as to patch up Anderson; I think he may have pissed himself. Oh and Lestrade, it was the brother who killed the victim. He was far too sloppy, but I must admit that I admire him for taking out his competition for the parents' inheritance. I may not care about my parents' money but I could definitely learn a thing or two. Mycroft had better watch out… toodles!"


	6. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

* * *

><p>I chased after him the second he left the room, whistling as he went, and only just caught up with him as he turned a corner down the deserted corridor. The police may face murderers every day, but Sherlock can scare them away into their offices just by appearing at a doorway. He had stopped, crouching down with his back against the wall, and he had his head in his hands. He was shaking and deathly pale,<p>

"_Sherlock_!" He looked up at the sound of my voice, his eyes wild and panicked, "Don't give me that look! What the _Hell _was that?" He blinked and stared at me, confusion clouding his expression,

"I—I don't know, John. What just happened?" He looked around wildly, confusion clear in his expression, "What's going on? When did I get to Scotland Yard?"

I stared at him for a second, and then slowly lowered myself to sit beside him. He genuinely looked confused., and his entire face was horrified,

"What's the last thing you remember?" He ran his hands through his hair, tugging at the ends slightly, "Sherlock, calm down. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"I saw Donovan at the end of the corridor, and I heard something." It didn't seem possible but his face was another shade paler, "I heard someone in the back of my head with my voice. He was saying things about her, _crude _things, and begging me to let him out. Then, it just went black." I reached out hesitantly and took his hand. He didn't pull away, and I rubbed a calloused thumb across the back of his hand. "I don't understand what's going on anymore, John. I can't remember large chunks of the day. Sometimes I only remember a few moments and sometimes nothing at all; it's as someone's stealing my memories."

I put an arm around the shaking man and pulled him into a hug, but he struggled away. For a second, I thought I was going to be greeted by the cool, sociopathic man from the hospital bed, but what I received instead was far more chilling. He was sobbing and, when he spoke, I quickly realised why he had frightened Lestrade so much on the night of the attack. It was as if a child had stolen the face of an adult, his voice trembling and taking on a high pitched lisp and his eyes wide and innocent,

"Please, stop. Daddy won't like it."

"Sherlock, wh—what do you mean?" He shrank away from me, curling into a ball and sobbing,

"Please, don't be angry at me. Please, don't tell daddy I was bad! I'm sorry!"

"You haven't done anything wrong. Calm down, Sherlock. Your daddy's not here. Nobody's going to hurt you—"  
>"Yes, he will, daddy will find me and he'll punish me because I was bad. Please, don't tell him I was bad. Don't let him hurt me, John."<p>

"I promise, Sherlock. I promise, I will never let anything hurt you again Sherlock." He finally relaxed and allowed me to pull him back into a hug. I think I needed it as much as he did. He smiled against my neck and said, quietly,  
>"You're my best friend, John. I know I don't say it much, but you're my cuddly teddy bear and I need you. You keep the bad men away, and you'll keep me safe forever, won't you?" I nodded, resting my chin on the top of his head,<p>

"I promise. Now, let's go home."

We both struggled to our feet, Sherlock moving with a hunched over childish gait, dragging his feet and tucking himself into a ball like a frightened child – although he still towered over me. Then he did something that surprised me more than anything. He took my hand. Not in a couple sort of way. He just took hold and clung to it like a little boy seeking comfort and guidance from its father, looking to me to lead the way, and – with a shrug – I held the hand and began to head in the direction of home. I was going to have to talk to Mycroft soon; I was forming an idea based on what might be happening to Sherlock, but I needed the psychological assessment that Mycroft would no doubt have made sure his brother received. And I needed it before this got out of hand and someone got hurt – like Sherlock.

When we got back to the flat, I found Mycroft waiting already, sat in the armchair and gently wiping the mud from the end of his umbrella with one of our washing up cloths. Sherlock's childish eyes lit up with delight at seeing his older brother,

"Mycroft! I thought you were at university; mummy told me you weren't coming back. Have you come to see me? Did you bring me some more books?" He released my hand and shot over to Mycroft, hugging his brother. I gaped at them as Mycroft gladly accepted the hug and genuinely smiled,

"Hey Lockie, I haven't seen you in ages. I missed these hugs."  
>"That's sad, don't the others hug you? I hug you lots!"<br>"I know and the hugs are wonderful. Could you go to your bedroom for a lie down? We grown-ups need to talk, now." Sherlock pouted, "Don't give me that look Lockie. If you go to bed now, I'll give you some liquorice after breakfast tomorrow."

Immediately, Sherlock jumped back up out of the hug and rushed off to the bedroom, with Mycroft calling after him, "And don't forget to brush your teeth!" There was a groan, but no sound of protest before the bedroom door slammed shut. Certain that Sherlock was out of earshot, I turned to Mycroft,

"You have some serious explaining to do Mycroft. What the hell was that?"  
>"That was my favourite out of all of Sherlock's personalities. Lockie was always far happier to see me than the others; even the insipidly nice one drew his boundaries at being merely cordial towards me." I crossed the room and picked up one of the cups of tea that he had made, taking a seat and simply saying,<br>"Explain."

Mycroft put down his umbrella, reached out for his own teacup, and sighed,

"Sherlock, amongst other conditions, has Dissociative Identity Disorder."  
>"I think I've gathered as much. Has he always had it?"<br>"He has always had the Genetic Predisposition – much like our father. Siger Holmes had two personalities; his usual self and another identity. The abuse that Sherlock suffered at our father's hand, or rather the other identity's hands, eventually lead the young boy to create the new identities to protect himself. Of course, being the arrogant sod that he is, all of the identities were just different forms of himself, which splintered off from the true self. Lockie is merely Sherlock's way of indulging the pure childish side of himself he lost. He is the side that was lost during the abuse, which he never truly understood. We think one of the other identities was created to endure the sexual abuse. No doubt the abuse the other day caused them all to resurface…"  
>"How many are there?"<p>

"I'm afraid I can't say…"  
>"Mycroft, if I'm going to help him then I need to know-!"<br>"No, I cannot say because I don't know. Sherlock's personalities split off when there is need. He hasn't had an episode in about twenty years, new sides of his personality have evolved and broken off since then. However, when were young there were merely four sides other than his usual self… the Sociopathic and highly logical side, the Psychopathic murderous side that suffered through the abuse and fought our father, the innocent child-like side and the impossibly kind side. Each was an exaggeration of one side of himself, the nice side having taken all feelings of nicety with him and leaving Sherlock without any social graces, but I have no doubt there are more personalities now. Which of the old four have you seen?"  
>"All of those and more."<p>

There was a crash, followed by loud cursing in Sherlock's bedroom, and Mycroft got to his feet with a sigh,

"I do believe that Lockie is gone, or at least I hope so. Otherwise, he's picked up some fairly foul language for a five year old. We had best hope that it is one of Sherlock's more amiable sides. The Sociopath and Psychopath did not particularly like me." I gave him a look, "Yes, I know, neither does his usual side, but he hasn't tried to stab me in the past or analyse me into a tiny quivering pulp of insecurity. The sociopath can be even crueller than Sherlock normally is."

"I believe I experienced that in the hospital."

I followed the man into the bedroom, and we found an incensed Sherlock ransacking his room in search of something. The second we crossed the threshold, he leapt to his feet and shot across the room to seize Mycroft by the shoulders,  
>"Where is it? Where did you hide it, you bastard?"<p>

Mycroft rapidly blinked at his younger brother, in surprise,

"To whom do I owe the pleasure of speaking to? I don't recognise this identity—"

Sherlock didn't reply, he just returned to overturning things, getting angrier by the second. He grabbed the pen-knife off his bedside cabinet, causing Mycroft and I to jump into action, terrified by what he was about to do, but instead he simply used it to tear open his pillows. Stuffing spilled out of the overstuffed pillow like guts and then he was sifting through it, throwing it up in a fluffy whirlwind.

He must not have found what he was searching for because, grunting in frustration, he threw it away and completely lost it. He screamed loudly, beginning to throw anything he could get his hands on across the room at his brother, before collapsing onto his backside and drawing his knees up to his chest.

There were tears running down his cheeks, and he began to rock slightly,

"Where is it Mycroft? Where is it? I need it!" He was running his hands incessantly through his hair, as Mycroft crouched beside him,

"What? What are you looking for Sherlock?" He looked up,

"The _drugs_! Where's my stash? It was here yesterday. I had some, and it felt so good. The real Sherlock freaked out when saw the mark, but I don't care. It's so delicious. I need it… I _need _it!" Mycroft reached out to place a hand on his shoulder, but his brother was suddenly on his feet. He raced away, disappearing out of the flat, and leaving us in the dust,

"Sherlock!" I raced after him, but by the time I reached the front door he had disappeared through the door and round the corner,

"Go find him, John. I don't want him getting back into old habits and he won't listen to me, not that side of him. It's the addict in him, it's irrational and doesn't want anything else. He no doubt still blames me for getting Sherlock off the drugs, but you can appeal to the other sides. They'll listen to you; you're the only one that they will."

I nodded and, grabbing my coat, ran into the rain in search of Sherlock.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

* * *

><p>I was running. Why was I running? It was freezing cold and rain was pouring from the sky, which had been split by the crack of lightening overhead. How long had I been running for, and why couldn't I remember? My entire body ached from my effort, my legs shaking and close to giving out, but the pound of adrenaline kept me going with a desperate need for something that I couldn't identify.<p>

I stopped, my legs too weak to go on, and I felt the freezing bite of cold water against my cheek. I tried to push myself up out of the puddle, but my arms were too weak. There was someone beside me, coming out of an alleyway it seemed, and their feet splashed through the puddle and soaked me,

"Get up. We have to get it." I blinked in surprise as I looked up and came face to face with myself. The other man had my exact features, but they were twisted into a crazed look, with a hunger that I hadn't seen in the mirror for a few years,

"What's going on?" Hands closed around my arms, pulling me upright,

"Come on! We need to get it; we _need _it." An arm encircled my waist, pulling me onwards, but I resisted,

"What are you talking about?"

"We have to go to our dealer. We have to find someone… anyone!" I shoved him, trying to get out of his grasp, and his distraction was just enough for me to get free,

"No, we gave that up years ago—" He turned back to me, eyes flashing, and I was yanked forwards by the front of my shirt. He was manic, and I was beginning to worry about what he could do. Then there was a voice, from somewhere deeper in the alleyway,

"Put him down." I knew that voice. Sure enough, when we turned, there I was. He was leaning against the alleyway, the expression on my mirror image far closer to the usual calm, deductive look I had. He wasn't looking at us, his eyes were casually focused on his phone,

"Why?" asked the other man, who was still holding the front of my shirt. "I need him. I need him to get the drugs, but he won't listen."

"We don't take drugs anymore, Sherlock."

"I know," I said. He shook his head,

"I wasn't talking to you. I was talking to him, the addict. Don't listen to him. Think about this logically. It rotted our brain and slowed it down. We work for Lestrade now, we solve cases and if we go back on the drugs then we won't be allowed to assist anymore. We need work, that's all that matters—"

"Just because you're a psychopath..." The other version finally looked up from the phone, the irritation clear on his features,

"You've been talking to Anderson haven't you? That is the conclusive proof that the cocaine rots your mind, you stupid addict. I am the Sociopath, I am not now – nor will I ever be – a psychopath, that's a separate personality."

As I watched myself having an argument, I was certain of one thing. I was definitely having a mental breakdown; it was the only explanation. The addict had released me to walk towards the sociopath and, as soon as he let go, I fell back against the alleyway's wall.

Immediately, there was a comforting hand on my shoulder, and a gentle voice said,

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" I looked up to see another mirror image, but this time he had an alien look of niceness that I had never seen on my face. He hovered over me with obvious concern, as the addict bickered with the cool, uncaring sociopath, and tried to help. Gently, he took hold of my elbow and helped me to sit down, before wrapping an arm around my shoulder, ignoring my attempts to resist, and gently smoothing my sopping wet curls, "Don't worry, Sherlock. You're not insane—" I laughed, shaking my head in disbelief,

"Yes, I rather think that I a. I'm hallucinating and I'm not even on drugs. I'm fairly sure that means I'm losing my sanity, or what little of it I had to begin with—"

"Of course you are. You're a total whack-job!" We looked up to see another one stood at the foot of the alleyway, silhouetted except for the small chink of light on his piercing eyes. He smiled, but it didn't quite meet his eyes, which fixed their cold gaze onto my face, "It seems you've finally tipped the scales. Maybe you're not even the real personality. Maybe, you're another one of us; we've got the addict, the sociopath, the psychopath, the goody-two shows and the **_Freak_**."

The one with his arm around me had moved, pushing me slightly behind him and shielding me, as if to protect me from the cruel words, which I was beginning to realise were completely true.

"Please, I know you're the psychopath, but can you not do this right now? Sherlock's clearly suffering, and we need him to get better. He's ill, if he stays here any longer then we will all catch our deaths along with him. Sherlock, can you get up?"

There was another voice behind me, much quieter and meeker than the loud personalities that surrounded me,

"I'm scared, Sherlock. It's too cold and dark Where's my teddy? Where's John?" A child had appeared at my side, looking up at me with familiar blue eyes, peeking out from under flattened, wet curls. He tugged on my sleeve, pouting as he begged for his friend. The kind version smiled at him comfortingly and – still supporting me with one arm – bundled the child up in the other, before helping me to my feet.

"He's not here, Lockie, but we're going to go find him. He can help Sherlock—"

"The only people who could hope to help us have straightjackets ready to hold us down," said the Sociopath, who had returned to texting and ignoring the addict. "We should take Sherlock to get psychiatric help. He has Dissociative Identity Disorder, but we've escaped. I've never heard of it before; there's possibly underlying schizophrenia and hallucinations. We need to get professional help."

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to push the wet curls out of my eyes. I was close to collapsing from the cold and the exhaustion and, apparently sensing this, the kind version gently lent me against the wall for support, so that I wouldn't fall.

"Why is this happening to me?" I asked him. He just smiled sadly – unable to answer. It was the psychopath who spoke up from across the alleyway, where he was still lurking in the shadows.

"You really haven't figured it out? I guess you are as weak and stupid as I thought. What's the main cause of DID? Can you deduce anything from that?"

"Childhood trauma and abuse," said the Sociopath. He pocketed the phone, looking me dead in the eye, "Typically it's of a sexual nature. Isn't that right, Sherlock?" It only took me a second to realise he wasn't addressing me, but the psychopath to his right. The crazed man smiled,

"Gold star for the top identity," he said. "I quite like you actually. If we could feel anything romantic, I'd probably jump you right where you stand." That was healthy; apparently, our arrogance had built to such a level that we could only feel attraction for ourselves. "Unfortunately, I don't think much of sex anymore… not after what your father and those men did to me."

All of the identities, even the wailing addict, went silent all of a sudden. They were staring at him in shock and shaking their heads. Only the child and I remained ignorant, the little boy moving to cuddle close to me, his eyes wide with confusion,

"What's he talking about?" I asked.

They ignored me, still glaring at the psychopath, until I finally snapped and bellowed, desperate for an answer, "_What is he talking about_?" They looked at me in pity and the kinder one at my side chose to speak, before any of the others could,

"I'm so sorry Sherlock, we've been trying to protect you, but you know already. You know what happened, and I think you've always known. When you were younger, you couldn't cope, so you blocked the memories and sent your childhood away in the form of Lockie. Then, you let him," he pointed towards the psychopath, "suffer the pain, so you wouldn't have to remember it. But, somewhere deep down, you've always know, what happened."

Suddenly, it was all coming back. The memories of all of the identities were returning to me, flooding my mind, and then the alleyway was empty. I was alone; curled up in the pounding rain with only the horrible nightmares from my childhood to keep me company.

I closed my eyes and let out a scream, trying to block out the voices and the thoughts, but they came thundering through my mind. Each of the identities was screaming their own input and flashing their images at once – causing my senses to go into overdrive.

I was only vaguely aware of someone grabbing my thrashing limbs and pulling me away, trying to get me to shut up, and then it went black again.

When I came back, and whichever identity that had been controlling me letting go, I was lying in an unfamiliar bed with a bare, sweaty arm wrapped around my bare chest. I instantly flinched, but it only got worse when I identified the owner of the arm,

"Ooh, is the real Sherlock finally back?" I stumbled out of the bed. Immediately, I set about picking up my clothes, which were strewn across the floor. The only thing left covering my body was a couple of bite marks and the fluffy pink handcuffs that I remembered seeing in the window of a sex shop.

"Moriarty? What's going on?" He smirked at me, leaning back against his pillows,

"Pity, I had hoped that your other side would relay the memories. He did seem to rather enjoy it." He smirked, shaking his head, "Don't look at me like that, Sherlock. You were the one who picked _me_ up after all, I simply went along with your amorous pursuits." I felt physically sick and my entire skin writhed. I felt dirty,

"I was treated to meeting a couple of your different sides actually. The psychopath and I got along particularly well, he took great delight in helping me plan a few murders, and the little kid was rather fun. We made cupcakes together."

I shuddered, trying to pull on my clothes and block out the thought of what I must have done with the other man – my enemy. "But the sexy side of you is my favourite by far… so charming and yet demanding. I had rather hoped he would remain long enough for another round—"

"Screw you—"

"That's what I was hoping for actually." I glared at him and pulled my shirt on, not stopping to button my shirt, or do up my trousers, in my rush to leave. He didn't try to stop me. He simply let me disappear; he'd had his fun. I felt sick… had some part of me actually enjoyed Moriarty's company, and actually wanted him? Part of me had related to him, and another part had wanted him – even had him. I had no control. They came and they went as they pleased, they did what they wanted and I could do nothing to stop it.

As if to prove my point, part of my journey disappeared into darkness and there was an abrupt transfer between the deserted part of London, where Moriarty was hiding, and the roof of St Bart's. I barely even jumped as I looked down at the pavement all the floors below.

There was a hand holding mine and I looked to see myself. His face was listless and pale, he didn't look up and his voice was far quieter and less confident that I was used to,

"Hello, Sherlock. You don't know me, do you? Probably not, no-one does. They all forget about me… poor lonely little depressed Sherlock, forgotten and neglected in the back of your head. The others don't like me either. Everyone picks on me."

"What are we doing up here?" He raised an eyebrow, though it was a despondent movement rather that the cocky way we usually did it. He sighed as he turned hisf ace to the rain and the night sky,

"I thought it was obvious. We're going to jump. This is the first time I've had you on your own, and I want you to see things my way for once. No-one ever does—"

"I don't want to jump."

"Really? Look deep down, and you'll see me there. That's where I am, the despair and the anguish. I'm the lonely little Sherlock who never had a real friend, or a family who loved him. He never had a celebrated birthday or a Christmas at home because he was sent to boarding school, and his father despised him. Will John even mourn us when we're gone?"

"Of course, he's our friend—"

"He's our flatmate. You said it best, Sherlock; we don't have friends."

"We just have one. That's John!"

"Really? I don't think he's our friend. We're just a hassle to him. We're the annoying flatmate who leaves body parts in the fridge, keeps him up playing violin and calls him halfway across town just for milk, or a trivial task you think beneath you. I bet you anything he'll think it a relief if we unburden him." I shook my head, trying to take a step back, but the hand closed tighter around mine and held me in position,

"You're wrong."

"I'm not the one thinking this. You are, Sherlock, and I'm just saying it for you. Nobody really cares about us, Sherlock, You're just the freak, even Mycroft doesn't want to handle us anymore; we're an embarrassment, and he's probably sick of cleaning up our messes to prevent his own humiliation."

"We're not that bad."

"Then why isn't he here?" I shook my head, but still the hand didn't release me,

"He probably doesn't know where we are."

"Do you really believed that?" he asked, laughing slightly – though it was a humourless chuckle. "Mycroft always know where we are. If he really wanted to help then he would already know we're here and he'd be talking us down. He wants you to jump. Everyone does. They'll probably all gather round to collect the pieces of your splattered brain, laughing as they go. Just do what they want for once. What we want. Jump."

Finally, I pulled my hand free from his and stumbled back, falling back onto the safety of the roof. I shook my head, rubbing a hand hastily over my eyes. I didn't want him to see the tears and think he was right. He wasn't. I was sure he wasn't.

"No, you're _wrong_. I don't want to die, not yet—"

"Those men wanted you to die. I daresay you'd be dead if the psychopath hadn't seen his oppurtunity as they were raping him… raping us. They raped you, too, Sherlock. They hurt you just like your father used to. You hated him, but now look at you. You're the same. Crazy. You always promised that you would never be like that man… and now look at you, you've even got the same illness."

"It's not my fault there's a hereditary link, and I'm not as bad as him. I would never heart anyone—"

"But, you did though. You killed those men." I shook my head, trying to block it out. I didn't want to remember the night, the memories of which were finally coming back to me, and I didn't want to remember my father. Until a few hours ago, I had remembered very little of my childhood and, now, there it was. The horrors were laid bare; in stark and terrifying abundance. It hurt.

I could see it all; the attacks, the injuries, the days of discomfort sitting at my desk, the hospital appointments and the look on my mother's face as she lied to the hospital staff. Mother always took Father's side, and Mycroft was no better. He told me not to speak of indecent things if I tried, so I forget them. I locked them away. I couldn't do it anymore.

"It was self-defence."

"But you enjoyed it. You know you did." I wanted to shut him out, but I couldn't. He was right; somewhere, deep down, I knew that I had enjoyed it, and that made me sick. I had spent years of my life denying the darkness, trying to hold onto my sanity, an working on the side of the angels, but I knew now that it was all in vain. I was a devil beneath it all.

"You're just a pathetic freak. Do everyone a huge favour and just kill yourself." My chest ached with the pain of it all, and the inability to suppress it any longer. He held out a hand and I took it, allowing him to pull me back to look over the edge, so I could look out and consider the end.

I was just allowing my foot to lift from the concrete when a hand grabbed the back of my coat and someone, I don't know which personality it was, hissed,

"Don't be an idiot, Sherlock. Get down."

"Sociopath, or psychopathic murderer?" I asked.

"Sociopath," he said, and I relaxed slightly. Of all of the personalities, I could relate most with him. "Sherlock, be logical about this. You're hurting now, but that'll past. I understand you're shaken up, but this isn't the solution. You've done well, you have a life and some good friends, and you shouldn't throw that away in one rash act because of this idiot. We don't listen to him for a reason—"

"Maybe because I'm right—" The sociopath shot him a dirty look, and he fell silent. He turned to look over the edge, returning to his moping,

"He's not right. He's the little voice in the back of everyone's hand, telling them that they're not good enough and they're not happy enough, but we push him down because he's a danger to you, Sherlock—"

"As opposed to all of you, festering in the background?"

"We will never hurt you, Sherlock." I laughed, shaking my head in disbelief,

"No, you'd rather just ruin my life. Perhaps, I should take his advice before you lot can do anymore damage. You've probably already alienated John, you've forced me to have sex with my arch-nemesis, you've probably ruined my career and both my reputation and mental health are in tatters because of you." The sociopath shook his head, his eyes still cool and unaffected by my anger,

"You can't really blame us for that, Sherlock. We are merely the symptoms of the madness and not the cause. You know the cause, but you've begun to accept it. That means you can go back to John and he'll help you. You're going to be fine; we don't want you to kill yourself, and you don't want to do it. Go home, Sherlock, and talk to John. You need him now more than ever."

I nodded, and his hand reached out to help me down from the ledge. I don't remember the rest of the journey, but I came back to my conscious mind as I stoof on the doorstep to 221 Baker Street.

The door was unlocked, clearly John had left it open for me, and I raced up the stairs ready to tell John everything and hope he understood. He wasn't there, but that didn't mean the flat was empty. They were all there. Every single one of them, or at least the one's I knew.

Stood brazenly, back bolt upright and with a look of deadly calm, the Sociopath was composing a complex melody by the window, which I had never heard. He was playing to the kind personality and the child, who were both clapping and offering encouragement from the windowsill. The child was clutching the skull to his chest, like a teddy bear, and trying to hum along to the music, but failing miserably.

The desk was occupied by the lustful personality, who was searching the internet and occasionally clicking links that made my cheeks instantly heat up at their sight. I think I even spotted Irene Adler's website at one point. He was accompanied by the depressive personality who, having been previously reprimanded, was moping on the edge of the desk with his back to the room. The quiet calm of these four personalities was balanced by the chaos of the addict, who was running in circles and overturning tables and chairs in search of drugs.

It was surreal to see them all sitting around the flat, calm and unaffected by my presence, as if they were simply my family round for afternoon tea. They weren't paying me any attention; they were consumed by their own activities. I watched them for a minute, and it slowly began to dawn on me that something wasn't right. There were six mirror images, and that meant there was one missing.

The second I realised who was missing, he was immediately the only one left. The psychopath was leaning against the desk, a smirk crossing his features,

"You called?" I tried not to pay him any attention. I turned and went through the kitchen and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. Perhaps if I ignored him then he would go away. Turning on the tap, I bent down to splash some water and try to get a grip, but he was there. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him reflected in the mirror. He didn't look happy. "You can't just ignore me, Sherlock. I am you, and you _love _you. In fact, I don't think there's anyone you would rather talk to. You speak to yourself for days and still love the sound of your own marvellous voice."

I tried to keep ignoring, but it was difficult when I was smashed out the head and my nose collided with the edge of the sick with a bone crushing _crunch_. Blood spurted free from the nostrils immediately, streaming across Mrs Hudson's usually immaculate porcelain and I looked up through streaming eyes,

"Are you going to kill your own body? I don't think that'll work out too well for you." He smirked, shaking his head,

"On the contrary, I think it will work very well. I don't need you; I'm the one in control, the dominant personality, and if I get rid of the primary Sherlock then I'll take control." I laughed, the movement causing the blood to bubble out of my nostril,

"Getting rid of me will kill you, too. I'm your physical body, and you still need me." He just laughed, shaking his head for a second, and then he snapped. Within the space of a second, his entire persona changed and a hand shot out to close around my neck. Not content to simply choke me, he flicked his wrist and slammed my head into the mirror.

Shards of mirror rained from the sky, slicing through my skin, and he smashed my head against the mirror again. The disorientation was getting worse by the second, but I managed to shove him off of me and stumble away from him into the living room – hoping to give the other personalities time to resurface and intercept him. They didn't fail me; they were back in their positions when I stumbled through, blood pouring from my head and leaving a crimson trail through 221b.

They finally looked up from their activities and, upon seeing the state I was in, they reacted with horror. Immediately, they jumped to their feet and raced to form a protective circle around me as the psychopath stormed towards us. One of them had taken my hand, quietly soothing me, and the sociopath stepped forward to speak as their leader. The psychopath laughed at their positions, before simply saying,

"Get out of my way."

"No," said the sociopath. "You'll have to go through us to get to him." The psychopath scoffed, stepping closer to his calm counterpart. They began to circle, facing off, and I had to watch very closely to keep track of who was speaking. Of all the personalities, they were the most similar, and yet I still identified most with the sociopath.

My attacker was holding a shard of the broken mirror in his hand, twirling it between his fingers and paying no attention when he squeezed his hand and droplets of blood dripped down his palm,

"How long do you think you could last against me?" he asked, finally. "I was always the fighter. I bore the brunt of it, and you lot just camped out at the back of his head and let me deal with it—"

"Yes, and we're sorry that you had to cope with that, but you were the one most able to cope with it. You didn't care, and you were the strongest—"

"And that is why I am going to beat you now, and I'll do it with ease." The sociopath stopped, his voice cold and trying to make him see sense,

"You know that this is illogical. You can't kill him, or you'll kill all of us… you'll kill yourself, for God's sake!"

There was a sudden movement, and I stumbled back as I watched the psychopath sink the long shard of mirror into his adversary's stomach. Nothing happened, however. There was no blood, and the sociopath's expression did not change. Then, he flickered. One second he was there, and the next he was gone… and then he disappeared completely.

Suddenly, everything went black, and all I could feel was the burning heat in my stomach.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

* * *

><p>I had phoned the police sometime in the early hours, and Lestrade stayed with me through the night after that, as we searched for a Sherlock, but we had no luck. Finally, at about six in the morning, we went back to the flat in the hopes that Sherlock would be there instead.<p>

We both soaked to the bone, sneezing and spluttering as we let ourselves in and climbed the stairs to my flat. Lestrade shook his hair to try and get rid of some of the extra moisture, but it had little effect. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever feel dry again,

"I just don't get it. He's been acting so weird of late. You're a doctor, John; you must at least have some idea what's going on." I sighed, I wasn't sure if I should tell Lestrade. It might tie his hands in the future and prevent him giving Sherlock further cases, if Sherlock was proved mentally unstable, but this was Lestrade. He cared about Sherlock, and he certainly deserved to know.

"He has multiple personality disorder. It means that he blacks out and different personalities take over. It just so happens that Sherlock's personalities – possibly due to him being an arrogant sod, or possibly because of the other underlying conditions – are deviations and exaggerations upon his own personality." Lestrade looked very pale as he tried to absorb the new information, but to his credit he persisted,

"Do you know why he's like this?"

"It's a defence mechanism. It was probably established early in his childhood, in response to a traumatic event, and simply resurfaced the other night. Now, however? I think the personalities may be the greatest danger."

My extremely cold fingers fumbled as I tried to quickly unlock the door, and allowing Lestrade to step through first. I was hanging up my coat, hoping it would dry without leaving a puddle and annoying Mrs Hudson, when Lestrade shouted,

"_Jesus_, Sherlock!" I jumped into action immediately, rushing to the source of the chaos, and spotting Sherlock without difficulty. He was lying on his side, blood gushing from his stomach, but his stitches seemed intact. It was another wound that was bleeding; a long slash just below his solar plexus.

I crossed the distance to his side in seconds and found the shard of broken mirror in even less time. It was embedded in his stomach, and the positioning of his fallen hand suggested that it might have been self-inflicted. It was huge, but at least it seemed relatively recent. The blood loss was fast, but the small puddle suggested he'd only been bleeding for ten minutes. It was lucky we'd come back in time.

I let my breath out through my teeth with a hiss, forcing the world to slow down and my body to calm down, and then my army training kicked in and everything went into overdrive. I dropped to my knees to start work and snapped over my shoulder,

"Greg, call an ambulance." He didn't move; he was still staring at Sherlock in shock, "Greg, now!" He looked up, snapping into attention, and went to work as I did the same. "Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?"

The unconscious man let out a tiny whimper, but there was no other response. His eyelids were flickering in a way that was reminiscent to their movement during REM sleep, and he was muttering to himself. I could hear tones and phrases from each of the personalities, as they warred and mumbled inside his head.

* * *

><p><em>Psychopath's POV<em>

The other personalities aren't happy with me; something about me trying to kill our host? But who cares about them and their opinions? They can go ahead and get their stupid knickers in a twist. Especially, the so-called sociopath; he should know better than to side with them. We're supposed to be on the same side. We're the unfeeling ones, the intelligent ones who don't care; we should be working together. He claims to be on no-one's side, except logic's.

Stupid git. I mean who cares if I stabbed him? Well, apart from him, of course. He was getting boring anyway. He's always so cold and logical; he just wants to work and understand, and he never wants to play or lose himself in the moment. At least, I have a new play-mate. Moriarty wants to be part of the game. He wants to be on my side.

I want to go see Jim. He's the only one who understands; he's the one who understands what it is to have an unquenchable thirst, to be bored and need to soothe the burning with a stream of never ending blood. I can't go find him, however. We're on lockdown at the moment.

I can hear Lockie sobbing in some not-so-distant corner of Sherlock's mind. I hate that kid. We think he was the original personality, he was the original whole before the real Sherlock as we know had developed, but he retreated so far into Sherlock's head during our childhood that he lost control. I was born, along with my fraternal twin – the Sociopath – to fill the void left by Sherlock's inner child, and the real Sherlock developed from bits of each of us. He has parts of us all.

My twin took control for most of our childhood and stopped me from having my fun, which is one of the reasons why I hate him so much. I would stab him again if he hadn't gone off to tend his wounds. He would keep us moving, and keep up the pretence of normality when Sherlock and Lockie were too terrified to come out, and I was only allowed out during the abuse.

The rest of the time I would retreat as well, to recover; don't get me wrong, I'm incredibly strong, but I still need time to recuperate. I wouldn't have any of the other's face the abuse, not because I care, but because I want to rip the throats of my attackers out. The abuse doesn't frighten me; I revel in it. It makes me angry, and that makes me strong. If I hadn't been tied up by those men, I would have killed them sooner – before they could rape our body – but I had to get my hand on a knife and free us first. I only released Sherlock to act as the control of our body because the attack left me too weak to force him down.

That was the only reason Sherlock was awake for any of his childhood; I can't keep control all the time. In childhood, I would release him or Lockie for just long enough that he retained some of his memory of his formative years. They certainly did form the Sherlock you see today. Each personality that splintered off over the years took something from Sherlock; he lost chunks of himself whenever he formed someone new, and it left him incomplete.

I remember when he reached puberty; he began to get human urges. In any other kid, they would take care of it with sex, or other methods, and it would be fine. Sherlock hated it, however. He didn't know why – he couldn't remember the abuse – so he called it primitive and claimed an aversion caused by a dislike of the distractions of sex. He pushed away those urges and the lust was trapped deep inside his mind, a horny creature that bounced off the walls every time a pretty girl passed us, or even when Dr Watson walked pasted in nothing by a bathroom towel. Luckily, it didn't register in Sherlock's poor little "virgin" mind.

The next time such a personality was created was during his university years. He started to realise that caring for people made him vulnerable, and that being analytical and cold was best for his work. It got him further than being nice, so he took almost every single nicety he had within himself and he pushed them down. They created a pure iota of insipid human niceness, untainted by even a tinge of cruelty, and the new personality was left to coo and cuddle us inside his mind. Outside however, he was left without understanding of social graces, or manners, and the smile he had once had ready for meeting new acquaintances became false and strategic. All that was left with what he needed to manipulate others to do his bidding, and the genuine smile that was only seen on rare occasions.

For a while, we were locked away and he commenced his life. We thought he was done, and no-one else would join us, but then came the drugs. Sherlock lost control and we were able to slip out of our prison and enjoy a brief period of freedom. I had the most fun going unnoticed; no-one blames an addict for attacking his dealer, or getting in a few fights.

Then he met a Detective Gregory Lestrade. Work became readily available at his fingertips and it became an obsession. On the provision that he stop taking the drugs that allowed us our freedom. Sherlock didn't hesitate and he got clean. The addict was shoved in with the rest of us and, for many years, we languished in the dungeons of the mind palace. We waited for Sherlock to weaken and give us the opportunity to escape.

Opportunity presented itself when Sherlock was attacked; it was like the old days. I broke out of my prison, and Sherlock let the floodgates open. Now, we roam freely, interacting and living side-by-side. It's boring and far too peaceful for the mind of a mad man, so I planned my escape. It's my final attack, and I will be victorious. I will take control of the body.

I should be King of the Mind Palace, not Sherlock. I fought all of the battles and protected our walls from siege and intruders. Surely, I should be more than a mere servant in his mind. I have done everything for him, I have protected him from the world, and they have never acknowledged that. That is way I have to take control. I am going to commit Regicide and take my rightful place as ruler of the Mind Palace. I can't kill the physical body, I've realised, because them I will have nothing to control, but I have a plan. All I need to do is overthrow him and lock him away in the dungeons for just long enough that I can take control of Throne room, and my control of the body will be strong enough that severing his link to the body will not kill me as well. Then I can kill him.

I've already started redecorating the throne room. That is where I took up residence as the other personalities snuck around, disgruntled over my attack on the body. There's a voice somewhere above and, after a brief moment of disorientation, I took control of the body.

Perhaps, I shouldn't have stabbed the sociopath. I hadn't been in so much pain for a long time. It doesn't help that the good doctor is frantically working on the wound and attempting to stem the flow of blood. I waited. I pretended for just long enough for him to stitch up the wound and I waited for the perfect opportunity, which presented itself when the doctor ducked down to listen to my breathing. He was whispering reassurance as I pounced, my fingers closing around his neck and squeezing.

He choked and spluttered through the injury, scrabbling desperately in attempt to pull me off, but I was stronger. I had the element of surprise on my side, and it gave the upper hand for just long enough that I could shove upwards and flip us. I pressed my knee into his stomach and tried to apply all of my weight onto his windpipe. He was going a fascinating shade of purple.

The detective had returned to figure out the source of the noise and grabbed my shoulder, trying to pull my off, but the attempt was futile.

"He's possessed," shouted the Detective Inspector. "Sherlock, it's _John! _Get off of him." I released him for a second, just long enough for Lestrade to breathe a sigh of relief and just long enough to grab the tea tray from the desk and smash it into the older man's face.

He fell to the ground with a cry of shock, blood spurting from his broken nose like a fountain, and tripped over the armchair. I heard the sickening crunch as his head caught the edge of the mantelpiece, knocking him out cold and hopefully permanently, and slumped onto the hearth. The doctor was just recovering as I turned my attention back to my chokehold, and I watched with satisfaction as the spluttering stopped and his eyes rolled back into the back of his head, his body limp.

I held on for just long enough to be certain that it wasn't a ploy before dropping him to the ground and stepping over him. I picked one of the clean shirts out of the laundry pile, abandoned by John earlier, and was just changing out of my blood soaked white shirt into a darker fabric, which wouldn't show the stains so clearly, as Mrs Hudson rushed in. She took one look at my bare abdomen and screamed,

"Sherlock, what happened? You're hurt—" She looked beyond me, at the chaos littering the kitchen floor and stepped further into the room when she saw the two men on the floor, "Oh my goodness, are they—Sherlock what's going on. I'll call the police."

"No need, Mrs Hudson," I said with a smile. I pointed at the unconscious detective inspector, "They're already here. I must say the police force really has become quite inefficient – lying down on the job. Out of my way." She gaped at me, a hand reaching up to her face, and shook her head,

"How can you be so calm, Sherlock? John's hurt! I have to call an ambulance."

"He's a doctor; once – or rather if – he wakes up, I'm sure he can patch himself up. Would you be a dear and make sure my dinner's ready for me when I get back, and don't tell me that you're my landlady and not my housekeeper, or I'll throw you down the stairs." She stared at me, the tears beginning to well up as she tried to make sense of what was happening, "I'll be back in an hour. Try and keep it warm for me."

Before she could reply, I pushed past her and breezed out of the flat, pulling on the shirt as I went, and down the stairs. There were a few odd looks as I walked, shirt slightly unbuttoned to reveal bloody skin, and the rest of me no doubt a state, but I simply smiled, wiping Lestrade's blood splatter from my face, and went about my business. One passer-by looked at me for a second too long and I smirked at her; she let out a squeak and raced past without comment.

It wasn't hard to return to Moriarty's home. He welcomed me with open arms, pulling me into a surprisingly pleasant kiss, and I simply shrugged and allowed him his fun. He smirked against my lips and his fingers buried themselves in my shirt, paying no attention to my injuries as he pulled me towards the bedroom.

When he was done, he offered me a cigarette, and I gladly accepted.

"I must say, I like this new you, Sherlock. My men have already gotten to work on the first few ideas you came up with. Have you anymore that you would care to share?" I smirked, puffing thoughtfully,

"Of course, and they will be the very best – I assure you. No offense, but I imagine they will trump even your most dastardly schemes. Give me a few months and I can use my personal insights into my brother's world and have the government begging me for mercy on bended knee."

"Sounds like fun."

"Oh, it will be. I'll burn it to the ground, and then I'll sell the ashes to the highest bidder." He smirked, resting his head on top of my chest,

"We'll be the most powerful men in Britain."

"Yes, _we,_" I said with a smirk. How very quaint. He was forming an attachment already; he thought we were in this together. No doubt he thought he could treat me as an equal now, and then take control of me in 'our' future. I don't think he realised how close he was to death at the moment. I could have snapped his neck; it would have been easy. The only reason he was still alive was that he was mildly useful – for the time being.

But, he was only as useful as the web he had weaved, and even his connections would only make him useful for a restricted amount of time. He would run out of people to use eventually, and then I would be the one in the centre of it all, and I would be free to kill him with my bare hands. They'd probably give me a knighthood if I did.

I took one last drag of my cigarette and then, before he realised what I was doing, stubbed it out on his bare skin. He let out a sharp bark of pain, and then a chuckle,

"Oh, this is definitely my favourite Sherlock. You should be in charge all the time."

"My thoughts precisely."

"I imagine that you have plans to take over?"

"It won't be long. I just need the opportunity to free the rest of them, and then I'll pick them off. Sherlock won't be coming back."


	9. Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine**

* * *

><p>It was a few more hours before he finally let me get out a bed, I was bored for most of them, and I began picking up my clothes. He raised an eyebrow, licking his lips eagerly, but I simply rolled my eyes and went back to buttoning my shirt. I paused in my exit from the expensive flat for just long enough to check my appearance in the mirror – I looked suitably rumpled, but extremely good nonetheless – and I grabbed my suit jacket off the hook, slinging it over my shoulder.<p>

I closed the door behind me and paused to consider my next plan of action. I needed the perfect place to fulfil the rest of my plan, and that place needed to be as quiet and undisturbed as possible. I needed a place where no-one would stumble across us, where the other's couldn't get help, and no-one could stop me.

The answer presented itself relatively quickly. The abandoned office building, where the men from the last case had met their gruesome end, had been emptied recently, since the case closed, and it wasn't far from my current location.

The other personalities seemed to sense that something was wrong as we stepped into the building, and they were struggling and screaming just beneath the surface, but I pushed them down for just long enough to lock the door behind me and hide the key. Finally, I unleashed them and they stumbled out, disorientated by the new surroundings.

The sociopath, whose bleeding had finally stopped, was pale from blood loss and look pathetically weak and pained. He had to support himself on the wall to face me,

"What are you planning?" I smirked, leaning against the desk and watching the weaker personalities panic and try to escape. They were finally at my mercy. Lockie was sobbing loudly, the nice creature desperately trying to hush the screaming child, and the noise began to grate on my nerves. In one hard tug, I moved the nice personality out of the way, pulling back a hand, and slapped the child hard across the face,

_"Shut up!"_ I shouted. He let out a whimper, stumbling back and desperately trying to sob more quietly,

"Why are you doing this? You're being like him; you're just like daddy—" I seized him by the front of his shirt, lifting him close to my face,

"And how would you know? _You_ of all people have no idea what he was really like. Yes, he occasionally hit, or slapped, you, but you always left it down to me to deal with it. You threw me to the dogs, and all that's happening now is because of you. It's your fault I'm like this! Sob all you like, you pathetic little kid, but just remember that this is all _your _fault."

I felt a hand grab my shoulder, but before I could react a fist had connected with my chin, catching me off guard, and knocked me to the ground,

"You can't blame him. It was our father who made us like this. We let you take the hits because you were stronger, but we never intended to hurt you—"

"Hurt me?" I asked with a scoff, shaking my head, "You didn't hurt me. You made me stronger." I kicked out, catching him on the shins, "Strong enough to kill you—"

"Stop it!" We turned to the voice, immediately recognising the overly friendly freak, who stood between us in his desperation and tried to break up the fight, "The fighting has to stop. We're tearing Sherlock's mind apart, and we can't do it anymore, or there will be nothing left for us. If we don't reconcile then he'll never be whole—"

"Whole?" I asked. "Why on Earth would we want him to be whole? You're asking us to kill ourselves, and for me to become one with _you _pathetic creatures?"

"But, don't you see? We won't die; we'll be part of him, and he'll be happy—"

"Why should he get to be happy?" The personality looked sad as he looked at me, the sympathy painful as he directed it at me,

"I feel so sorry for you. You can't be happy for anyone else, and you can't be happy either. If we become part of Sherlock again, he'll be happy and we'll get to be part of us. He doesn't deserve this anguish; he doesn't deserve any of this. Look around you." I glared back at him, defiantly standing my ground, but he held fast.

Finally, rolling my eyes, I glanced around at the others. The sociopath stared back at me steadily, the child was still sobbing and the goody-two-shoes wrapped his arm round his shoulder. The addict was rummaging through the drawers of the desk, the horny creature eyeing us all up and the depressing one was sat in the corner. Then, for the first time in my life, I faltered. I saw what he was seeing.

The sociopath seemed to understand and he stepped forward to try and finish the job, knowing that I would listen to him more than any of them,

"You understand now, don't you? Sherlock is sick; he's been sick for a long time, and that's because of us. He's nothing but a splinter, never whole, and we have to work together, or we'll continue to tear him apart. He can't go on like this." I looked back at him, and the relief that flickered across his face – as he believed that he had won – immediately riled me.

"So be it. It'll be easier to take control like that. I will not lie down and let him destroy me—"

"But you won't be destroyed. You'll just be part of something better!"

"I don't want to be part of that!" I shouted. I grabbed him, throwing him into the desk and laughing as the wood splintered and sliced his skin, "I am my own person. I made myself into who I am today, and I want my independence. Why should he get to be the real one; what makes me any less of a person than him?"

The goody-two-shoes had pushed the kid behind him, standing between us to protect the sobbing brat, and the sociopath staggered back to his feet, wiping the blood away for him face, and prepared to fight.

But, before we could engage, everything went black. Sherlock was finally gaining control.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

* * *

><p>I was back in the flat and sitting in the bathtub. How had that happened? How did I get there? There was blood in the bath, running off my wet clothes, and I could feel the insuppressibly strong bubble of tears just beneath the surface as confusion and frustration welled up.<p>

Finally, for the first time since my childhood, I let go and I began cry in earnest. I'm not ashamed to say that I was frightened. In fact, I was terrified and utterly overwhelmed by it all.

This was the final proof; I was a freak. In fact, I was worse; I was probably a murderer. I might have killed my best friend, and even if I hadn't then I would have to leave 221b. How could I ever face him again? And that was only if I hadn't choked the life out of him. How would I cope without John?

Guilt washed over me and I dropped my head into my hands. The sobs must have gotten louder because there was a soft click and the bathroom door opened slowly. Lestrade's head appeared, hesitantly, around the doorway and he peered down at me,

"Sherlock?" He spoke in a hushed voice, gentle and soothing. He was probably expecting me to start frothing at the mouth, if startled. Really, I didn't trust myself not to lose it. I couldn't be sure of anything anymore; I was out of control. Lestrade brought me back from the brink gently, coaxing me to calm down with gentle shushing noises, before asking, "Is that you? Or is it one of the… others?"

I shook my head, ashamed that he even had to ask that,

"It's me. Oh God, I can't even be sure of it myself, but I think it's me." He had stepped into the light, no longer a shadowed silhouette, and I could see that his nose had been stuffed with wads of tissue to stop the bleeding. It was crooked now, bending to one side, and clearly broken. I would have to get Mycroft to pay for cosmetic surgery, or it would never look right again. Both of his eyes were blackened and blood was spread around an ugly gash on his forehead, from where he had hit the fireplace, "I'm so sorry… I can't… I can't control it—"  
>"Stop beating yourself up about this, Sherlock. It's not your fault; it's alright—"<br>"No, it's _not_!" He flinched slightly at my shout and I recoiled, shrinking further in on myself, "I'm so sorry, for everything. I could have killed you, Lestrade." He smiled, a hint of the carefree Lestrade showing through for a second,  
>"It'll take a lot more than that for you to take me down."<p>

He crouched down beside the bathtub and reached out to push the curls from my face, like a father with his young child; his every movement was soft and tender and measured – so as not to startle me. When he spoke, it was little more than a murmur, but it was utterly convincing, "It's not your fault, Sherlock." I tried to open my mouth, "No, listen to me now. You're sick, and that isn't your fault; that's your father's fault. You can't help it that these personalities are taking control of you, so you need help. John and I are going to provide that as best we can, but you have to get professional help as well."  
>"I will, I promise. I promise I will." He looked surprised, "What's that look for?"<br>"I've known you five years, and you spent the entirety of that first year as an addict refusing help. I never thought you'd give in so easily."

"I've never tried to kill my closest friends before."

He pulled me in for a hug before I could refuse – not that I would have. I simply let the warmth and sharp tang of aftershave reassure me, to let me know that he was alive. He enveloped me in the comfort I so desperately craved, and I couldn't stem the flow of tears into his blood-stained shirt.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Chapter Eleven**

* * *

><p>I had woken to a pounding headache and Mrs Hudson screaming at John to wake up. It had been with great difficulty that I got upright, trying to suppress my groan, so I wouldn't worry her, and I looked at the doctor. He had purple bruises forming all around his neck, and he didn't seem to be conscious. I reached up to my injured face and found that Mrs Hudson had stuffed my nostrils to stop the bleeding.<p>

The second I sat up, she descended upon me in full worry mode, and I had to interrupt her to get a word in edgeways,

"Mrs Hudson, have you called an ambulance?" She shook her head, dabbing at her eyes tearfully, and I nodded,

"Would you, please, go and do so? I'll watch John until you get back." She hadn't needed telling twice, and I turned my attention to his limp form. His eyelids were flickering, which was a good sign, and I dropped my head to listen to his breathing. It was laboured, but he whispered,

"Sherlock?" I shook my head, before realising that he couldn't see it, and said,

"He's not here." He nodded slightly, and his eyes finally opened,

"Where'd he go?" I sighed, running a hand through my bloodied hair,

"I don't know. You alright, mate?" He chuckled, shakily,

"I don't think so. I think I need to lie down."

"Shall I take you upstairs?" He shook his head, pushing himself upright,

"Don't think I'll make it. Sherlock's bedroom."

I nodded, pulling John's arm around my neck, and we struggled to our feet together. It had taken much longer than usual to get to Sherlock's bedroom, and I was just lying him down on the bed when we heard the front door click open. I hoped that Mrs Hudson had the common sense to avoid the man – in case he was still inhabited by someone who could cause her harm – and luckily we didn't hear her interacting with him.

As the footsteps approached, John tried to sit up, desperately wanting to go to his friend, but I pushed him back down. We needed to err on the side of caution; we didn't know which personality we would be confronted with. So, rather than bursting out there like we wanted, we sat in silence. I opened the door just a crack to watch Sherlock disappear into the bathroom. He was blank, as if he was walking around in a coma, and his eyes were glassy. Convinced that he wouldn't attack, I called out to him, but he didn't answer.

I informed John of what was happening, fetched him the first aid kit from the kitchen, and went to help Sherlock. Waiting outside the bathroom, I listened to the sound of sobbing that drifted from the bathroom. It began as a light whimpering, like a puppy thrown outside for peeing on the carpet, but it increased. Eventually, it had increased a sobbing, gurgling noise, and then full-blown wailing. I went back to John, trying to figure out what to do, and saw that I wasn't the only one who was alarmed. Sherlock never let go of his emotions, and here he was bawling his eyes out.

Struggling with the duvet, John tried to get up and go to his best friend, but he had fallen. The bruises had formed a clear ring around his neck, and he looked no better than I did. Sherlock didn't need to see him in that state. It would only make him feel guilty, so I put the doctor back to bed and plucked up my courage. I was slightly apprehensive about what I would find, and I felt my heartstrings tug when I saw what lay behind the bathroom door.

It was a pitiful sight. The great Sherlock Holmes had been reduced to a sobbing, guilt-ridden, ball in his bathtubs. The tears were streaming down his face, and the confusion was clear on his pale, blood-stained face. He was so tiny and meek. It was as if he had been reduced to a child in so many ways.

Poor kid. He was beating himself up, I could see it in his eyes; he was lost and distraught. I couldn't find it in me to be angry at him. In fact, I didn't blame him at all, and I knew John didn't either. He'd told me so as we struggled towards the bedroom.

Sherlock looked up instantly when he heard the door opening, and I asked quietly, though I was almost certain that I knew the answer,

"Sherlock? Is that you, or one of the others?" He shook his head,

""It's me. Oh God, I can't even be sure of it myself, but I think it's me." I took a step forward automatically, seeing his pain, but the second the light fell on my face he began to howl even louder. "I'm so sorry… I can't… I can't control it—"

"Stop beating yourself up about this, Sherlock. It's not your fault; it's alright—"

"No, it's not!" I flinched instinctively, and I regretted it immediately when I saw the hurt on Sherlock's face. He physically recoiled, terrified of my reaction to him, and I felt my heart go out for him, "I'm so sorry, for everything. I could have killed you, Lestrade."

I forced myself to smile, trying to let Sherlock knowing that I didn't blame him and that it wasn't his fault,

"It'll take a lot more than that for you to take me down." I crouched quietly, trying not to startle him, and I was struck with how upsettingly young and vulnerable he looked. Even during his addict years, he had never looked like this. He had always been strong and guarded, and I felt the anger in my rise when I realise why he must have had to grow up and protect himself from such a young age. I pushed the curls from his face and murmured, "It's not your fault, Sherlock."

His mouth opened slightly, preparing to interrupt, but I cut him off, "No, listen to me now . You're sick, and that isn't your fault; that's your father's fault. You can't help it that these personalities are taking control of you, so you need help. John and I are going to provide that as best we can, but you have to get professional help as well." Silently, I prayed that he would accept the offer and that he wouldn't let his ego get in the way. I couldn't help the relief leaking into my expression when he nodded almost immediately,

"I will, I promise. I promise I will." He must have notice the expression on my face, "What's that look for?"

"I've known you five years, and you spent the entirety of that first year as an addict refusing help. I never thought you'd give in so easily."

"I've never tried to kill my closest friends before."

That touched me more than I expected. He had never even called me a friend before, but to know that he viewed me as one his closest? Even though he had just broken my nose, and left me with a throbbing concussion, I couldn't resist pulling him in for a hug. He broke down again, tears soaking the front of my stained red shirt, and I just let him break down.

When the tears began to subside, I wrapped one arm round his back and the other under his legs. He was so light and skinny, after days of anxiety and lack of food or sleep, I could easily lift him free of the tub.

He was still wet from the rain, so I gently put him on the toilet and wrapped him in the closest towel that wasn't soaked in blood. His curls were beginning to dry, which suggested that he must have been inside for a long time during the rain, and I wondered where he could have gone. He wasn't in any state to answer, so I simply wrapped my arms around him again to try and warm him up.

It was a few minutes before he began to squirm and try to pull away. His eyes were darting all other the place, as if people were calling his name from different areas in the room, and he let out a groan. The second I realised his arms, he covered his ears with his hands and seemed to shrink inwards.

"Sherlock, what's wrong? What's happening?" He moaned, and I watched him slip from the toilet seat to the ground, and he frantically pulled at his head.

"Have you ever had seven people inside your head?" He jabbed his fingers at his temples, "They're all squashed inside here, and they're all screaming and crying for my attention? It's like trying to fit a balloon into a box that's not quite big enough. Every time you squeeze a little bit into the box, another bit of the blood bursts free and it will never quite fit whilst whole an unpopped. Something always spills out."

He grabbed his head, fingers burying themselves in his hair, and tugged at his roots, "They just keep screaming! All of them wanting my attention. Shut up! Shut up! _Shut up!"_ I was glad he wasn't look at me and couldn't see my terror.

His eyes widened, and I watched his eyes move to look at something behind my shoulder, "No! Stay away from him!" He shoved me out of the way and began to wrestle with what appeared to be thin air. He heaved his whole body weight into shoving the unseen assailant, and then – I don't know how – he was flying back as if he had been shoved.

The back of his head connected with the already shattered mirror, and he began to choke as if someone had wrapped their hands around his throat. I watched, frozen to the spot by a morbid fascination, as he screamed at an invisible attacker and slammed himself against the wall. Finally, seeing the damage he was self-inflicting, I was released from my paralysis and I jumped into action,

"Sherlock, you have to stop. _Stop!_ There's no-one there!"

My shouts fell upon deaf ears, and I had to jump to grab his hands and pull his hands from my own throat, "Sherlock, you have to stop!" He blinked, a haze from clearing from obstructing his clouded eyes, and he spoke with a child-like innocence,

"Greggie, what's happened?" He asked. His hands reached up to dab at the back of his head, "Ow, it hurts." The light blue eyes widened, "What's going on? Oh no," he breathed. He dropped to his knees, paying no attention to the damage to his knees, and began grabbing pieces of shattered mirror with no attention to the cuts on his hands, "Oh no, I made a mess. Daddy's going to angry! Please, don't let him get angry at me. Where's John? I want John; he'll keep me safe. He promised."

"John's not here at the moment." The wide, unblinking eyes flicked up to look at me, with pain evident in the unwavering blue depths,

"Is he hurt?" I hesitated for a second, not wanting to upset him, but finally I had to nod. I dropped to my knees, took his wrists in my hands, and tried to stop him from picking up the mirror. Immediately, he began to panic when I tried to restrain him, and I hated realising what that could mean. Perhaps, it wasn't an unfamiliar gesture to him – having his wrists held in huge, adult hands. I released him instantly,

"Calm down, Sherlock, everything's alright. I'm your friend. You don't have to be afraid, but I need you to stop picking up the mirror. You're going to hurt yourself—"

"But daddy will be angry—"

"You'll be alright, Sherlock. I'll keep you safe until John comes back. I'm a policeman, I can protect you. It's my job."

His entire face lit up, the intelligent glint returning to his eyes. It was the same light that I saw when we were on the crime scene of a particularly interesting murder.

"Wow, that's amazing. I wish I was a policeman, or even a detective. Mycroft used to read me detective stories, if I was good, and it sounded like fun." I smiled at him, nudging him slightly,

"You are a detective, or at least the other is a detective."

"Wow," he breathed. The awe was evident on his face, "Can I come see a case?"

"Of course, but – in exchange – you have to do me a favour." He nodded eagerly, a huge smile on his face,

"Yes, what is it? Anything you want, you're my friend, and I'll do it." I took a deep breath, considering the quickly forming plan and thinking it through in detail,

"I want you to help Sherlock. You have to get the others to stop fighting, so you can all allow Sherlock to be in control. You've all be hurting him—"

"I didn't mean to," he said with tears welling up, and he began to sob pitifully. "I'm so sorry. I didn't want to hurt anyone. Did I do that to you, Greggie? Did I hurt John and Sherlock?" I shook my head, because in my mind it wasn't him,  
>"No, that was a different Sherlock, and you have to stop him. You have to get him and the others to stop, to go back to wherever you were, and protect Sherlock. Can you do that for me?"<br>"They'll be really angry. They'll be so angry at me."

"I know, but they can't hurt you. John and I won't let them hurt you."  
>"But, I don't know how to get them to go away. I don't know, how do I do it, Greggie?" I took hold of his shoulders and forced him to look at me, calming him down in his panicked frustration,<p>

"Where did they come from? None of you have been out since Sherlock was younger—" He shook his head,

"No, no… I remember you from before. I remember when Sherlock was putting those horrible needles in his arm filled with happy juice. You were the nice Detective who looked after us." I froze. So, Sherlock's disorder had resurfaced during the time of addiction? He must have been pretty damn out of it if I hadn't noticed.

"Okay, so how did he push you all down again? Where did you go?"  
>"We went to his mind palace. We were in the dungeons. I don't want to go back there, Greggie. Please, don't make me go back."<p>

I let him hug me tightly, sighing and running a hand through his curls,

"I'm sorry Sherlock, but you have to go back, or Sherlock will suffer. If Sherlock suffers, then so will John. He's your best friend, you have to help him. If you want John to be happy then you have to go back—" He looked up at me through the tears, and he nodded.

"Okay, but only for John. I'll get rid of them, but I'll need Sherlock's help. I'm going inside."

Before, I could ask what he meant, Sherlock went limp in my arms.


	12. Chapter Twelve

Sherlock POV

When I woke, I expected to have been thrown back out of darkness and into my body by the withdrawal of one of the personalities, but I wasn't outside. I was in a place almost as familiar to me as Baker Street. My mind palace. Every inch had been painstakingly carved and designed to be my place of worship, where the only thing I held holy was knowledge, logic and my work.

But this wasn't the same; it wasn't as I remembered. I was sat on my throne and staring down at the empty room, confusion clouding my mind and seeming to fill the room like a dense fog. It seemed strangely bare and for a second I wondered why, and then I realised. All of the books, all of the files and all of the papers that normally filled the room - and my most treasured information, which is usually kept in the throne room for easy access and regular use - was gone. Someone had stolen it.

It felt so empty. It was as if someone was moving everything out, including myself, so they could take control. They had even started to redecorate; all of the furniture, even the throne I was sat upon, had been moved to the centre of the room and draped with dust sheets, so they could repaint the walls. Half of the deep purple had already been replaced by black. I frowned and climb down from my throne, walking out into the palace and seeing that the other rooms had remained mostly untouched - so far, at least. The other personalities seem to have gone through the books, keeping themselves entertained, but none of the rooms were had the same degree of disarray as the throne room. It was as if that room was waiting for a shift in power.

The first sign of change I found was one of my studies. The door had been so heavily graffittied with a black marker pen in a variety of agitated and scrawling fonts. It was simply the word "Drugs" over and over again. I pushed the door open just a fraction to the find that had once held all of my instrument and equipment for chemistry had been converted into some sort of meth lab. The wallpaper had been stripped from the walls and the bare wall treated in much the same way as the door. The floor had escaped being saturated with pens because it was covered, instead, by waste: dirty syringes, bottles once holding Methodone, a light sprinkling of Cocaine and lighters. A few cigarettes, half used and with the smouldering ash scattered over the rest of the debris, were still smoking and had been thrown to the ground in a rage, joining empty bottles of whiskey and vodka.

The addict himself was curled up in a corner, his pupils constricted to tiny pinpricks as his eyes darted around the room, but he didn't seem to notice me. His sleeve had been rolled up, with a makeshift tournequet still around the arm, which had been held out reverently with the syringe still embedded in it. He looked impossibly far away and I didn't stop to try and make sense of the jibbering nonsense. Had I really been like that in the past? Did I really go so far?

I couldn't stay for another second, it was too troubling, so I carried on down the corridor. The next room wasn't far away, and it was impeccably tidy. The walls were whitewashed, everything had it's place and all of the files had been put into folders, boxes or had been arranged precisely on the corkboards covering the walls. Every inch of the room was brimming with information and I could see pictures of people with parts of them annotated, white text declaring their life story and their little personality quirks that only I noticed. It didn't take much to realise that this was where the sociopath lived, bombarding himself with work and with cases piled high on the desk where he laboured. I also noticed that there was nothing there except the work… it was all that mattered to him.

That was what made it so very different from the next room I came to. It clearly belonged to the kindest personality. The curtains around the tall french windows had been thrown open to allow light to stream into the room, illuminating the room with a golden glow that warmed the soft, calming colours and comfortable décor. There were hundreds of pictures in this room: memories of my time with John, both of us laughing and running off on adventures; pictures from my childhood with Mycroft and mummy; even some pictures of Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. It was a room filled with kindness and friendship, a side to myself locked away for a long time, so much so that I hadn't even realised I had this side. I didn't realise how much I missed being that person until I was looking at the evidence that I could potentially be him, or at least partially him, and not the person who had occupied the last room.

I had to force myself to walk on, smiling slightly as I passed the child's bedroom, which was a typical little boy's bedroom. It was blue, filled with toys and even had a small nightlight shaped like a pirate… I'd grown to live for the night time, but I had been terrified of it in my childhood years. I didn't pause to look at the room properly, however. It hurt too much. It was an open wound; this room was the ghost of a missed childhood,and a reminder of an abuse that I had withdrawn from and barely understood at the time.

The next room was plastered with graphic images, stimulus which made me recoil slightly; one whole wall was occupied by John Watson, another wall was taken up by Irene Adler, and the rest was filled in with images of Moriarty and any attractive person who I had ever looked at objectively. Here was my lust and my passion laid bare, no longer torn down into analytical logic… these people's smiles, looks and touches covered the walls. I had to pull away as I realised what that probably meant about my supposedly platonic feelings for John. I had buried them under so much logical asexuality that I didn't even realise they were there. And then there were the quite frankly sickening pictures of myself and Moriarty, and even more disgustingly Sally Donavon, caught in the act and rutting like animals. I pulled back instantly, feeling sick, and focused on John's wall. I lost myself slightly in the largest picture, where he was simply smiling down at me.

When I passed the next room I saw only gloom. The windows were shrouded with thick veils, and the lights and mirrors had been thoroughly smashed. The whole room stank of staleness and was thick with a palpable depression that oozed down the cold, dank walls. The depressed personality was buried under the cover, pulled into a ball and wailing so softly that I could barely hear him. It was so pitiful that even I could hardly stand it, and I almost went to comfort him, but then remembered that he wanted me dead and decided against it.

The psychopath's room was the worst out of all of them. The whitewashed walls had been splashed with liberal amounts of blood, the spatter pattern on one wall looking remarkably like the pattern left by the blood thundering out of a slashed jugular. I grimaced as I realised the floors were slick with a coating of blood and a few discarded body parts had been scattered around, torn from their bodies with obvious ferocity. Raw meat, in the shape of limbs that looked remarkably human, hung on great gleaming hooks from the ceiling and the surfaces were covered with skulls and even morer body parts. Arrows, Ninja throwing stars, daggers, bullets, poison darts and machetes were all deeply imbedded in the wall, thrown there in a fit of fury.

Angry sketches of bodies twisted into writhing agony, their haunted faces too realistic, had been made from violent slashes with charcoal or had been torn from books by other artists and secured to the wall, along with bloody tongues and ears, by daggers. A small animal lay whimpering in once corner, it's entire body quivering; it was the kitten I remembered having found in a box in an alleyway. What had I done to it? It had gone missing the next day and turned up drowned; it was sodden now and shied away from me, sickening me slightly. So that was what had happened.

The walls and floors were littered with photographs from the memories of my life, memories which I'd only recently regained, of my past and my childhood. The murders of the men, the abuse by my father and the hundreds of images of my destruction and murderous mayhem grinned down at me from the walls, like a hundred tiny madman.

I had to forced myself to walk away and carry on to the end of the corridor. What was I doing? Where should I go? The door was slightly ajar and I cautiously moved closer, hearing the other versions of me talking. It was strange to hear my own voice talking out loud, though my lips weren't moving, and then responding to itself. Yet, oddly, I could also distinguish the tones of the voices even without looking at the seperate personalities.

Through the gap in the door, I could make out the comfortable sitting room where I often went to relax in my mind, whilst I was thinking about a case. The child was sat in the nice personality's lap, hugging him close for warmth and protection as they anxiously stared into the fire. The lustful personality was draped across the armchair beside the fireplace, plucking a violin with obvious ternsion in his body, and the Sociopath stood separate from them all, his hands under his chin as if in silent pray – my usual thinking pose.

His eyes were fixed on the glass window, staring out over the palace gardens, and his eyebrows furrowed as he thought it through. All of the most logical and acceptable personalities of my mind were in one room, looking desperate and confused, all looking to the sociopath for leadership and protection from the others outside the room. Their leader sighed and began to speak,

"The Palace is in lockdown. Sherlock must be a coma-" The lustful one spoke up from beside the fire, a passion in his eyes which I usually only saw in people's eyes when there was someone else naked in their sight - usually a picture or film. He was more than just sexual then, he was passion… angry or otherwise,

"This is all the psychopath's fault. Where the Hell is he anyway?"

"Somewhere in the grounds. Don't worry, he can't get out of the palace to cause more harm, but neither can we. Sherlock's missing, he's not in the Throne Room I went to check; he could be anywhere, and I don't like the thought with the psychopath running around. We need to track him down. Lockie, when did you say you took control again?"

"Sherlock was fighting the psychopath. He was outside and they were wrestling, I was scared, so I took over. I promised Greggie that I would help Sherlock-"

"And we will. But I worry that if we are all locked in here by the coma… then so is Sherlock. He's been left vulnerable to the Psychopath's attacks; we need to track him down and-" There was a cold chuckle and the door on the other side of the room clicked open,

"Ooh, are you having a meeting? I'm sorry, I guess I didn't get the memo-" The passionate personality leapt to his feet, eyes narrowed at the psychopath,

"You've locked us all in, and we're just trying to solve your bloody mess! Excuse us for not inviting you in for tea-" The psychopath grabbed the man who was confronting him and twisted his arm behind him, making him cry out in pain,

"Sit down and stop embarassing yourself Sherlie." He tossed the lustful side into his seat beside the fireplace and shot an angry glare at Lockie, who shrank into the nice personality with obvious terror. The sociopath rolled his eyes and, arms clasped behind his back and face impassive, he spoke for the group,

"Your actions in attacking Sherlock have lead to a total lockdown in our palace. Somewhere in these walls the real Sherlock is trapped by a coma. We need to release him and you need to see sense and stop your ridiculous plan to overthrow him, because it's going to _kill us all!_" The psychopath smirked slightly and turned to face his twin, black eyes looking deep into icy blue,

"I will never stop… once I get my hands on him, oh the things I'll do-"

"I cannot allow that-"

"I'd like to see you try and stop me. You'll have to beat me there, so see you at the finish line." Turning swiftly on his heel, he glided from the hallyway. I breathed out slightly in relief, glad he hadn't chosen to come out through the door I was peering through, or his search would have been over very quickly.

I turned and ran, looking for a hiding place as they declared their intentions to split up and track me down. If I had it my way, I would stay hidden for as long as possible – until I could find a way to get out without taking _any _of them with me.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Sherlock POV

The hiding place that I chose - slightly unoriginally - was behind a set of drapes. I sat with my head against the wall, listening intently for any potential threat and hoping that I would wake up soon and be free of the trap before any of them could find me. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case.

I heard a soft noise echoing from the end of the corridor and looked in that direction, peering through the chink in the curtains, but there was nothing there. When I turned back to stare at the wall across from me, however, Lockie was sat across from me. His wide eyes were watching me carefully, and there was an obvious look of fear and urgency on his face. I could tell that he was desperate to take to the other personalities immediately, but I didn't want to go. I wanted to wait until my body gained control of itself.

The little boy reached a hand out to me, and I took it reluctantly. He pulled my up on to my feet and, after checking round the curtains to be sure that the coast was clear, he pulled on my hand and tugged me out of the hiding place.

"Quick, we have to get the others-" He set off into a run, tugging me along after him; we were running down the corridor that lead towards the throne room, and he would check around corners frantically before he dared to take a step. I decided to feign ignorance, not wanting him to know of my eavesdropping on their conversation,

"What's going o-?" He cut me off with a shush, looking around frantically,

"He's everywhere. He'll hurt you, and then he'll hurt John. I promised Greggie. I have to help."

There was a shove in my stomach, and I tried to protest as he shoved me behind another set of curtains. I realised quickly what was happening, and it was when I was trying to be silent that my heartbeat decided to pound loudly in my ears. It felt so loud that I was sure it was audible throughout the Mind Palace, summoning the Psychopath like a beacon.

The mad-eyed creature prowled past our hiding place, luckily without pausing to look through the gap, with his eyes narrowed as he searched for his prey, and we watched the psychopath snarl and then disappear from sight. We didn't took for a couple of seconds, as we waited for him to get out of earshot, and then Lockie spoke in a whisper,

"We have to get the others to help. We need to lock him up, or he'll hurt John. We can't let him hurt John again." The child burst into hysterical tears, and I shushed him in case the psychopath heard the whimpering and came back, "We hurt him before and he's our best friend. I don't want him to do it again!"

A voice echoed down the corridor, apparently having been drawn by the crying,

"Lockie, where are you?!" We froze and I clamped a hand over his mouth, silencing him. One of the other personalities came into sight through the small crack and for a second we feared that it was the psychopath, having returned. His face was cold and set into an angry snarl, and I ducked out of sight as he spotted Lockie through the gap. I had just a glimpse of blue eyes, however, and I was certain it was the Sociopath that was coming towards us. "What are you doing down there? I told you to stay close in case the psychopath came." He had reached the curtains now, and he pushed them open to reveal that I was sat there as well. "Sherlock? How did you get there?"

"It's my mind palace," I reminded him.

The sociopath scoffed, looking extremely unimpressed,

"_Your_ mind palace? I have guarded these walls for twenty years. Whilst all of the other personalities sat in their cells, I was here. I was the only one you allowed to roam freely, and I spent that time filing, learning and searching. I made your mind palace what it is, and it would fall without me!"

"But it is still _my_ palace! I come here all the time. How have I never seen you?"

"I wasn't visible before, I'm more a part of you than the others, and I only fully separated in light of the recent events. I, unlike the Psychopath, would like to return to my true position as part of your mind, which is why you're here. Your brain slipped into a coma to enable you time to repair yourself. You have the chance to put yourself back together, and to be whole for the first time in decades. You can finally be the man you should have been, if not for your father."

Lockie bounced at my side, nodding excitably,

"Yes, we're going to put Sherlock back together and rid of all the others-"

"We can't get rid of them all. Sherlock needs me, or he loses how he defines himself; he needs you because you're his childhood memories, and he'll have nothing left without you; and he needs his nice and lustful sides around, every once in a while. Some of us need to stay; we make him who he is-" The boy rolled his eyes at the sociopath's reasoning, clearly finding it dull, and I was suddenly reminded of the hyperactive child I had once been. I had been so happy and curious, excited to learn things, but unable to sit still for long explanations. Mycroft had encouraged that, and he had never understood what had happened to that boy, nor had I - since I had forgotten the abuse. Now, I knew.

"Yes, fine. We can just get rid of those three, and then we can all return to our proper place as part of Sherlock." They both turned to look at me, and I grimaced slightly at the way he had phrased the statement,

"I don't know what becoming 'part of me' entails, but I can't imagine it's going to be fun-"

"I'm sure you can handle it, Sherlock. Pain is hardly unknown to us." He looked at the blood stain seeping through the front of my shirt, "And on that note, how's the stab wound?" I pulled up my shirt slightly, and he mirrored the action to compare our wounds. They were symmetrical down to the tiniest detail,

"I think this shows how closely we are related. We will be the easiest to join up again, but it's not going to be easy. How are you feeling? Are you up to fighting?"

"As up to it as I'll ever be. It's this or risk dying." He nodded,

"We'll go after the psychopath first then. He's the strongest, and we'll need all out energy to deal with him-"

Another figure appeared at the end of the corridor, running towards us with a frantic expression on his good-natured face. There was something about his face that, though the features were completely identical, made him look like a completely different person. His face was soft and kind, the hard features becoming smooth contours and gentle angles, and it was strange. All of the personalities managed to retain the essence of my own face, the intelligent coldness, except for him. It showed just how much difference there was when the same face was controlled by a completely different person.

"Oh, thank goodness you're alright Lockie, and you, Sherlock! We worried that something may have happened to you. Are you comparing battlewounds? Do you need any help? I may have a first aid kit-" He had a ridiculous smile on his cheery face, so desperate was he to please us. He was remarkably like a puppy dog. I'd never met anyone so sickening cute, and I live with a man who always wears fluffy jumpers and drinks tea. He reached out a hand to comfort us, but the sociopath glared him down,

"Touch me, and I'll snap your arm." He shrugged, backing away with that same smile still plastered on his face and patting me on the back, chuckling at the sociopath's threats.

"Anything you say, buddy. I just want what's best for all of us. Shall we kick the next part of the plan into action?"

"Yeah, go get whoever you can gather - except the Psychopath, of course - and meet us in the throne room. We're taking Sherlock's palace back and fixing it, for good. Lockie, go track down the psychopath and lure him to us. Sherlock, you're with me."

I nodded and followed him down the corridor. He was definitely the one most like me. Even now, his eyes were flickering over the empty shelves in the throne room, drinking in and filing away the tiniest details as I did for everything, and he sighed loudly,

"I had just finished alphabetising all of this. Twenty years of work down the drain. These were all the details of the last five years of cases, placed into ranks of importance and then ordered alphabetically. It's all ruined, all hidden away or ripped up. I'll kill him!"

"Oh, will you?" We turned in time to see the bloodied form of Lockie land at our feet. He whimpered, but before I could offer comfort he had crawled away and hidden away behind the throne. I actually felt a small welling of sympathy for the boy, and it only made me angrier with the man who had hurt the innocent young creature.

The Sociopath's eyes were narrowed, clearly I was not the only one affected by the cruelty, and he moved to square up to his twin,

"You can't keep doing this. Sherlock reigns here and that will always be the case. Sherlock is the true personality, we are merely fragments, and none of us can take control without him, because there's not enough of us to sustain a whole person for longer than a few hours. Killing the true Sherlock will kill us all."

The psychopath sneered at him, unsettling me further. I had frequently been called cold, sociopathic, unsympathetic and "generally a bit of an arsehole", but I had never thought of myself as evil. I work for the good of others, even if it is for selfish reasons such as boredom, and it was deeply troubling to see myself so horrifically twisted and cruel. I silently vowed right there and then to start listening to John's lessons on social nicety.

"I really don't care anymore. At first, it was just about control and power… now I don't care about that. When I was with Moriarty the other day, we hatched a plan. We're going to kill someone from every country in the world... but, oh, won't it be hard to track them all down when I have so little time. Well, it would have been, but Mycroft helped me on that front. A little bit of sweet-talking and playing little brother, and I have a pass into-"

"The UN building," whispered the Sociopath. "He was talking about his meeting the other day, and Moriarty mentioned your idea. You're going to plant a bomb-"

"I made it myself. One explosion and not only do I kill someone from every nation, but I take down the world's leading politicians. Minimal time, but maximum impact. Going out with a bang you could say."

"And that was why you attacked Sherlock in the bathroom. I thought it was rash, but you just needed to act quickly. You needed to be at the UN meeting in a few hours and you needed Sherlock trapped in here, or dead, to do so…"

"I must admit, for my plan to work I need total control of a physical body and a few hours uninterrupted by you lot-"

"_But we'll all die_! If this Sherlock dies then he leaves a gap, and the mind slowly decays. All of this disappears and within a few hours, probably before the plan's complete, we go into a coma permanently… we'll be _brain dead!_"

"And I'll never be punished for my crime… in a way I get off scot free."

"These are people's lives, entire _nations_, we're talking about! If you take out all the world leaders, you could destroy the planet's politics. You could start world war three, and for what? To stop the boredom! You can't kill innocent people just for fun and you can't _end the world_ just because you feel like it!"

"Oh really? Well, who's going to stop me?"

"Us." In they filed, one by one, to line up around the Sociopath. They all there except the Depressed personality, who they probably couldn't convince to get out of bed. Together, they formed a united front against the Psychopath, and even Lockie got up to help - taking the Kindest personality's hand and attempting to look brave. They were fighting for their home and to stand against their biggest threat. Forget Irene Adler, forget Moriarty and forget the assasins, murderers and rapists I dealt with on an everyday basis for years… the biggest threat I'd ever faced was now stood before us. A self-loathing psychopath who was trying to take my mind from within. His lips quirked into a smile, and he laughed at them,

"You forget, I have fought every one of our battles for the past twenty years. I am the strongest of us all. Do you honestly think you can beat me?"

He began to laugh, his face adopting a manic expression, and they all looked at each other in worry, beginning to doubt if they really could beat him. They seemed on the verge of backing down when suddenly there was a loud bang, and his expression froze mid-laugh. His eyes widened in shock as blood tricked down his face, staining it like tear-tracks, and he fell face first. There was a thud as his body hit the ground, and we watched in shock as the blood spread around his head in a scarlet halo.

In unison, we turned to discover the identity of the killer, and we shouted together,

"John?" I was glad to see that I was not the only one surprised by the development of events, as they all exchanged confused looks. He gave me - note I said me, which gave me an odd sense of satisfaction - a cheeky grin and tucked his gun away in his front pocket,

"That's my name, and don't wear it out-"

"That would be completely impossible," said the Sociopath, who clearly couldn't resist. He was silenced by our irritated looks, however. I was the first to move, shortly followed by Lockie, and I ran to wrap my arms around my friend. It wasn't something I would usually do, but it was a relief to see him. He had come at just the right moment. I pulled back and John patted Lockie, who's arms were round his waist, on the head affectionately.

"What are you going here? You're not another personality are you?"

"Oh, God no!" He laughed, shaking his head, "No, thankfully not. You could say I'm a... resident. I'm the only one who can get inside your head, and you have to admit that I'm usually on time to save the day with a well aimed bullet. It's basically my job description at this point." I laughed, it was true. John usually turned up in just the nick of time, and the Study in Pink was just one example of his exemplary timing. It only seemed fair that the man who had changed my life so thoroughly had a place in my Mind Palace, where I only stored the things that had mattered once. Until now, that had only been the work and never a person.

He turned to look at the personalities, and I did the same. It was strange to be stood staring at a whole line of me, especially when they were all regarding me with identical expressions and their heads were all quirked at an identical angle. It only made it worse that "my" still warm corpse was lying at their feet. I shuddered, and John seemed to share the feeling because his fingers twitched to his gun.

Clearly, spotting John's intention, the Sociopath's eyes narrowed,

"We are all deemed necessary to Sherlock's personality, so I would advise against disposing of any of us." He looked down the line and quickly backtracked, jabbing a thumb at the personality to his immediate left, the addict, "Except him. You can do as you want with him."

"Hey, you can't send me ba-" He was cut off by John's fist cracking into his jaw, and the Sociopath gave him a brief, appreciative look before turning to look at the others.

"Right, I'll take him down the dungeons and make sure he never gets out again. John, you track down misery guts and get rid of him. Little-Miss-Sunshine?" The Friendly personality immediately jumped forward, eager to help and clearly not at all offended by the nickname, "Look after Lockie and make sure Sherlock get's some rest." They all looked at me, and I immediately felt disconcerted under their identical gazes, "He's going to need it."


	14. Chapter Fourteen

John POV

Even though I doubt Sherlock would appreciate it, I sat by his bedside and held his hand. I don't know what's happening anymore. How could this have happened? Last week, Sherlock and I were running round, enjoying life and our adventures, and I was happy. Yes, Sherlock's a pain in the arse, but my life was better with him it. Now, everything's coming apart at the seams. In the past week, I had lost everything... I lost Sherlock, or at least the Sherlock I knew. One minute he was pestering me to go on a case with me, and then suddenly he has a dark past, a history of abuse and God knows how many personalities. I wonder what would have happened if I had just gone on that damn case with him. Maybe, we wouldn't be here, and I wouldn't be at his bedside for the second time in a week.

Lestrade had offered to drive us both to the hospital when Sherlock fell unconscious, and I certainly hadn't put up a fight. Sherlock was in serious trouble, and I was out of my depth. I didn't know what was happening. He wasn't in a coma, more like an unconscious form of a fit. He just lay there, muttering and groaning, and talking to the other personalities, and they would respond - his voice changing to accommodate their speech patterns. Today, however, he had fallen entirely silent and still.

The doctors had rushed around him, desperately running tests and consulting with psychiatrists and psychologies, and experts in all fields, but they had never heard of anything like it. Of course they hadn't, this was Sherlock; even his mental illness was different to a normal person's. There was one thing I remained adamant of throughout his treatment. I never left his side. Even when they wanted to treat my own injuries, I refused to leave. Eventually, one of the doctors had agreed to wheel another hospital bed into Sherlock's room, and it was there that I continued by vigil. I tried to fight sleep off for as long as possible. I was terrified that I would fall asleep and wake up to find... to find that Sherlock couldn't. It was a horrifying thought. I didn't know how I could hope to carry on without Sherlock in my life.

Something else was worrying me as well. What if he woke up and it wasn't him? What if the Sherlock that woke up wasn't our Sherlock? Our Sherlock was losing his grasp and rapidly deteriorating, and I we were beginning to think that maybe we'd lose him to one of the others. And what would be better? Seeing Sherlock die as himself, or live as someone else?


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Sherlock POV

When I woke, I was surrounded by all the personalities but for the Psychopath, Addict and Depressive. John was stood to side, watching me intensely and with obvious concern, and the others were awaiting instruction from the Sociopath. The nice one helped me to my feet, sympathy clear in his soft expression, and he helped me to move up to my throne. It was there that they descended upon me, stepping as close as they could manage without knowing their heads together, and my advisor - the Sociopath - came to stand at my shoulder. There was a cold look of indifference on his face, and I knew his work was nearly done. Hhe merely wanted to return to his place and fix his home, and he didn't care how much it hurt.

The others looked far more nervous, each worried that they would not survive the reattachment to my mind, or rather that I would not survive and they would perish alongside me, and I could see John look away. He was glaring at a spot on the wall, but when he looked back at me it was with sadness, rather than anger. The anguish was clear in his eyes, and I wanted to tell him that he was an idiot for worrying. I was the one who should be worried. He was just a figment of my imagination, he would just disappear if I died, and the real John was out there. This one wasn't real, why did he bother with caring? I knew the answer to that one, because he was _John._ John cared. Always. Real or imagined.

"All of you take hold," said the Sociopath. They did as instructed, latching on to any part of my body that they could reach, and the sociopath took my head in his hands, staring into my eyes.

"After we do this, your personality will forever be altered. You will still be Sherlock Holmes, but you not any Sherlock that we have ever known. You will be a combination of us all, and the man you were destined to be. Do you accept this change, and what you will become?" I paused. I was happy with who I was, I had never wanted to change, but there was John. He was watching me closesly. He would never expect me to change for him, but what if I did? What if I understood what he needed, and could empathise, just a little bit better? I could be the man John deserved as his friend, and possibly more. I could make the change, and I would do it for John. To keep him in my life, for the rest of my life.  
>"Then brace yourself."<p>

I nodded and clasped the arms of the throne, the nerves bubbling in my stomach.

It was then that it happened, and all I could do was look into the pained blue depths of John's eyes and beg them to help me.

Blinding pain. That is the only way I can describe what came next. I was screaming as they entered me, reattaching to me and altering everything that I was; adding their kindness, their skill, their lust and their childish glee. Memories flashed across my eyes and their screams melded with mine. For all the good they were doing, I could still feel the horrific pain. John was begging them somewhere in the distance to stop it. I could hear him desperately trying to help, but it was too late. They were burning me, their bodies forcing their way through me and altering me not only mentally, but also emotionally. I was seeing all of the abuse, feeling the pain of the violence and assaults of my childhood and the men, and all of the attacks felt raw and unbearable.

Suddenly, I couldn't scream and John's voice was gone in the white-noise of pain and memories. I was tapped in never ending agony, and I was alone as I silently begged for it to end... no matter what it took.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

John POV

I was awoken by horrifying screams, but it took a few minutes before my blurred vision could focus on the sight of Sherlock's thrashing body. For a second, lying in my bed, all I could do was stare at him, and then his mouth opened and he released a noise like nothing I'd ever heard. It was a howl, a bone-chilling scream of agony, and then he was silent. His mouth remained open, and his eyes were wide, but I knew he could not see me as I rushed to his side.

Suddenly, his entire body convulsed, tearing wires and tubes out of his body, and I begged for someone to help me hold him down before he caused himself damage. Greg, who must have been sleeping in the hospital chair between our beds - I hadn't seen him appear in my peripheral vision - appeared and we managed to get a hold of his arms. Frightened by the fit, Greg began to shout,

"SHERLOCK! STOP IT! STOP! WAKE UP!" The pagers and alarms were frantically going off and doctors were running in, adding to the chaos and shouting over our screams for help. His entire body arched off of the bed and bent at an impossible angle, his back looking as if it would snap in half, and his eyes widened to a point of panic that I'd never seen. His mouth opened in one last bellow, louder than anything I'd ever heard, and he looked at me with pleading in his previously empty eyes. It was as if someone were torturing him. It made no sense. No-one had any idea what was happening. And then he collapsed back into the covers, his entire body still and limp, and the doctors were rushing to save him.

Everything was silent around me as I watched them work. Greg was being ushered from the room by a nurse, and someone was trying to take me away, but I refused to go. I threw myself at him, pushing through doctors as my whole world collapsed,

"Oh God. God no, Sherlock-" I grabbed his hand, shrugging off the doctors that tried to pull me away. "Sherlock, no... wake up! Sherlock!" He had no pulse. Oh God, he had no pulse. Everything slowed down as the doctor's tried to force me away from him, but I struggled against them frantically. They were descending down on his limp form with defibrillators, shouting for everyone to clear, as they desperately tried to bring him back from the edge.

It couldn't be real. I just hadn't woken up, that had to be it. I was still asleep. It had to be a nightmare, how could he be dead? How could Sherlock be dead? The two words didn't go together. The world needed him._ I_ needed him. I had feelings for that man that I couldn't even bring myself to describe. He was everything. How could he possibly die? Not now, it didn't seem real. There was nothing wrong with him. He was physically fine! There was nothing life threatening about his health. There was no bullet wound, no overdose, no fall, and his stab wounds weren't life-threatening.

Nothing was physically wrong with him, ignoring the healing wounds, it was all in his head, so how could it be killing him? Were they tearing him apart from inside? Ripping his mind up in their battle for dominance and killing him in the process? Was there even enough of him left in there to be Sherlock anymore? That seemed the most horrific explanation possible. Without his mind, he wasn't Sherlock, or at least he wasn't the Sherlock we were fighting to save. I couldn't bear to think of that stupendous mind being turned into nothing, like paper being shoved through a shredder. It couldn't happen... not to Sherlock.

I was frozen to the spot. Lestrade was desperately trying to pull me away and give the doctor's room to work, but he only succeeded in getting me to the doorway before I managed to resist. I tugged myself free of his grasp,  
>"I'm not leaving him." He put a hand on my shoulder, choking as he spoke,<br>"You're not leaving him, John. He's leaving us. God knows, he might have already left us days ago. You have to realise, John..."  
>"What, that he's dead? Greg, he's not even cold. He's not <em>dead.<em> Sherlock _is not_ dead. He can't... he can't be."  
>"I know how much he means to you-" I scoffed,<br>"You have no idea... you can't possibly understand what I feel. I don't even understand it myself!"  
>"You love him."I blinked at him and pulled away, looking back at Sherlock,<br>"I'm not gay." I stared at the pale face, almost entirely blocked from view by doctors and framed by a sodden, dirty mop of curls, and I silently pleaded for them to wake him up. I felt like a ghost, stood watching them attempt to save him, and feeling like I would fade away without Sherlock there to anchor me to the world.

"No, but that doesn't mean you don't love him. John, he's your other half. He's the centre of your world. And now he suddenly seems more human, and you love him for that-"  
>"I don't want him to be human, because if he's human then that means he can die. And he can't," I choked, "he just can't." Greg squeezed my shoulder,<br>"I'm sorry, John."

We both looked up in anticipation as a doctor approached, and my knees buckled when I saw the look on his face. Lestrade only just managed to catch me.  
>"No. Oh God, don't let this be real. This can't be real." I dropped my face into my hands, numbness spreading through my body. I wanted to scream, to cry and to shout from the rooftops. I was vaguely aware of the doctor asking if there was anyone I could call, if I had a wife or family member, he even asked Lestrade if I wanted a priest. I told him to piss off. How can people find comfort in religion at times like these, knowing that it was God who took their loved ones? I didn't need religion. I needed Sherlock, and he was flatlining just a few metres away. I felt like cursing God for forcing me to live in a world without Sherlock. I don't care if I have to live with a hundred different personalities all popping in and out. If it brought him back, then I would embrace each of them as the man I cared more deeply about than anyone else in the world.<p>

I couldn't take it in, and suddenly I was running. I raced to his bedside, desperate to get through the crowd of doctors who were declaring him dead, but Greg chased after me and caught me. There was a moment of wrestling as he tried to escort me from the room, and I desperately reached and called for Sherlock. There was no response, and Greg tugged me away. It was only as I finally began to realise that he was gone, and I allowed Greg to lead me, that I heard a voice croaking my name.

"John." I had never heard such a sweet noise as that single rasping word. Greg released me instantly, dropping me in shock, and we swivelled around to see Sherlock watching us walk away. His eyelids were drooping slightly and his voice was hoarse and rasping from screaming, but it didn't matter. He lifted a hand, his entire body weakened and aching, and simply said, "John." I couldn't stop myself from running to his side, and the doctors moved out of the way instantly, the crowd parting like the red sea,

"I'm here," I burst into tears, grabbing the outstretched hand in a vice like grip and gasping out, "I'm here, Sherlock."  
>"Where were you going?"<br>"Nowhere, I'm not leaving you again. I'm never leaving you again."

He looked up at me and, for the first time in too long I was truly seeing _**my** _Sherlock and realising that Greg had been right,

"And neither am I. They're gone. They're all gone." I felt my heart leap even further, if that was possible, because it was better than I could ever have hoped for. I choked on the tears; seconds ago I had been faced with losing Sherlock, and here he was, and it was truly _him._

"Thank God." I huffed, half laughing and half trying to look furious, "Don't you ever do that to me again, you bastard!"

He smiled weakly and I couldn't help but think he was the most wonderful thing that I had ever seen. His piercing eyes met mine and he whispered,  
>"You're holding my hand, John. People might talk." I chuckled through the grateful tears, pulling him into a gentle hug, resisting the urge to crush him in my hold,<br>"Let them talk. I don't give a damn what people think, these past days have been absolute Hell, and I'm going to enjoy having you here to the fullest."  
>"You don't have to worry. I'm back, for good. It's me, I'm never going again." I pulled him tighter and muttered,<br>"Good because I don't intend on ever letting you go."


	17. Chapter Seventeen

John POV

Two weeks later

Sitting in Lestrade's office, I tried to fight the fit of giggles which was building in the pit of my stomach. Lestrade was at my side, spluttering and choking on his own uproarious laughter, both of us sitting with our arms crossed as we watched the events transpiring outside of the window.

A few hours ago, a little girl had been brought in. She had been distraught after the disappearance of her parents, in mysterious circumstance, and Sherlock and I had been called in. Obviously that's not what we found hilarious, I'm getting to that bit. Anyway, Lestrade had tried every form of praise, bribery and prodding to get the girl to open up but she had refused to even speak. She just sat, staring at her hands in dead silence. When Sherlock arrived he had ushered us out, to watch from the interrogation room behind a one-way mirror.

Through the mirror, we had watched Sherlock's transformation. Ever since that hospital visit he had been different, in a good way. Suddenly, he was more than just Sherlock Holmes, the Sociopath. He had more sides to his personality, as if all of the fragments had reconciled with the logical, cold detective's normal personality, though he never explained what exactly had happened. So, whilst they never took full control, as they had in that terrifying period of darkness, they were always just beneath the surface… and often they were there for the better. It made him more human, more accessible and more kind.

Now, we had watched his good side appear, brightening his entire persona and bringing a twinkle of warmth into his usually icy blue eyes. It reminded me of the change that would come over him when he portrayed a character, whilst talking to a witness, but it was so much more. The smile wasn't forced or cat-like; it was deep and genuine. He had abandoned his coat quickly, throwing it over his chair, along with the gloves and the scarf, then gone to kneel in front of the little girl, opening his whole body up - hoping to become accessible and get her to connect, he told me later. He pushed the long blonde hair out of her face and pulled an expensive silk, monogrammed handkerchief out of his pocket, which he had used to gently dab her eyes. Once her face looked less red and puffy, he quietly instructed her to blow into the handkerchief. Then, disposing of the expensive scrap of fabric – even the nice side wasn't about to put up with a sodden, snotty piece of fabric in his pocket – he had taken the girl's tiny hands in his, gently rubbing a thumb over the skin to soothe her and looked deep into her eyes, analysing her.

An idea had apparently come to mind and he bowed jokingly to the girl, kneeling like a knight before his Queen and bowing his head and speaking with a surprisingly accurate impersonation of a medieval knight,  
>"My dearest Princess, our greatest army - the yard of the Scots - is to be sent to search for your Royal Parents, but we must have the map to the distant Kingdoms, or we will never find the evil troll who took them. Sir Lestrade, Sir John and I will not stop until we have found them!"<p>

Her face had lit up, and a smile had formed immediately,  
>"Are you a Knight too?" He shook his head, pulling a face – teeth bared and his arms moving to form claws in front of him – as he roared softly,<br>"I am Smaug the Dragon, hear me roar! Your father tamed me many years ago, and I must bring him back to the Castle or the Kingdom will perish!" He looked sincerely at her, eyes wide, and gently asked, "Will you help us on this quest?" She looked thoughtful for a second,  
>"I will, but only if you let me fly on your back, oh Mighty Smaug!"<p>

Instantly, she was being lifted into a piggy back and Sherlock began to jump and roar as they ran around the office, ignoring the looks shot their way as they as they ran past the staff, screaming and roaring as they went. His childish side was clearly enjoying taking part, Lockie surfacing to indulge in the one bit of carefree play that Sherlock would get every decade or so. I imagine that Mycroft and Sherlock had never had much time to play make-believe in their youths. Sherlock was suffering at the hands of their father, forced to be serious and quiet to keep out of the way, whilst Mycroft was probably entirely focused on school. This was probably one of the few times he had ever truly let go and indulged his childish side. Suddenly, Sherlock skidded to a stop,  
>"But alas, our path is blocked! For it 'tis the fair maiden, Lady Sally, trapped in the clutches of the Village Idiot, Anderson! We must save the damsel and perhaps she will accompany us on our quest." Lestrade and I burst out laughing as Sherlock, who still had the little girl clinging to his back, picked an astounded Sally up Bridal Style and ran away from Anderson, Donovan screeching in his arms and trying to escape.<p>

They returned to the interrogation room and Sherlock dropped the woman and girl on the desk, jumping up onto the chair and pulling a heroic pose, slightly ruined by his giggling along with the little girl,  
>"I have saved you, Lady Sally!" She smirked slightly, playing along for the girl's sake,<br>"Indeed you have good sir-" The little girl piped up, looking at Donovan in disbelief,  
>"He's a dragon!" Sherlock bared his teeth comically and growled,<br>"Of course, how foolish of me for mistaking such a fine specimen. I'm afraid this puts me in a difficult position… for all fair maidens must reward their saviour with a token, a kiss!" Sherlock rolled his eyes, grunting slightly, and tapped his cheek with a finger, allowing her to reach up on tiptoes and peck a brief kiss on the pale skin. Sherlock actually smiled at her, nodding his thanks for her playing along with the game, and I smiled.

Lestrade had been right. Sherlock was almost human now. He had more sides to him than just the side I had once admired and befriended, and neither of us were the same people as when he had been attacked. It was definitely odd to see him act such kindly to Donovan. She had actually been surprisingly understanding about the whole thing, learning about the war waging in Sherlock's head, and had stepped down graciously. Most of the time, they were pretty much back to their old relationship; although I did catch a brief twinkle in her eyes once in a while, when she was looking at Sherlock. The look was usually returned with begrudging respect and slight smile from Sherlock. Now, he gave that same smile when she curtseyed and said,

"Now, if you will excuse me, my Prince Charming waits for me. Good day, kind Dragon and lovely little princess."

The two waved goodbye as Donovan returned to her desk, where her new boyfriend – one of the new guys on the force – was waiting with a bemused smile on his face. I could see Anderson's murderous look as he stared at the pair of them, and I could also see the moment of realisation as he remembered what Sherlock had called him. Lestrade let out a bark of laughter at the delayed response.

We exchanged a look and turned back to see Sherlock tickling the little girl and pretending to breathe fire, an odd but not unpleasant warmness radiating throughout my whole body. Damn, I loved that man. It wasn't as a friend, or a lover, or even a brother. I didn't know what Sherlock was to me, other than the part of my soul that had been missing all of my life. I knew now that we could never be happy if either of us was to go without the other; I would only truly be happy if we one day retired to the countryside, to live out of the rest of our days side by side. I could almost see us sitting across from each other at the breakfast table in years to come. Sherlock rattling off about tobacco samples as I read the paper and pointed out interesting stories over my toast.

As if sensing my scrutiny, Sherlock looked up and I returned to the present. The wrinkled face and grey hair of the future faded, and I was left with man of the present. His eyes flickered across the mirror and, as impossible as it seemed, I swear they zeroed in on my own. For a long moment, we stared into each others eyes, and he smiled as the strange connection, and then he turned back to the little girl. The grin on his face never faded, however, and neither did my own.

Slowly, both of them slightly out of breath, he set her back in her seat and the proper questioning began, the girl spilling her entire life story to the dragon, happy to help us with our quest.

And all I could think was how lucky I was to have found him, because - in the end - we had saved each other.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

Sherlock POV

Later that evening, when we finally returned to the flat after the case was closed, John began his usual ramble. I was always flattered by the things John would say, but this was more welcome than most praise. It had been my first case since the... John referred to it as the incident. My confidence had been shaken, though I would never admit it; I worried that the personalities would piece together in a way that would destroy my deductive abilities. I needn't have worried. If anything, the case seemed to have sailed to conclusion far quicker than it would have otherwise. Still, nothing built up my ego quite like hearing John's gushin. my heart rate sped up, my face flushed slightly and I couldn't help my grin at the flattery.

I could bathe in the warm glow of his feelings, bask in his flattery and covet all of his attention and still it wouldn't be enough any more. I no longer wanted to be selfish and cold, to take from him and never give back, I wanted to make him feel the same things that he made me feel. I wanted to be his friend, his brother, his everything. Just as he was mine. My old self would have cursed my other personalities for making me feel this way, the sociopath was already hating it – he had taken to leaving messages on the walls of my mind palace telling me to focus on work – but the rest of me fullheartedly loved John, though I would never truly admit to it. I didn't need to. John already knew.

"So how did you think of it?" I blinked, realising that I hadn't paid attention to what he'd said, I had been too caught up in my thoughts. Apparently, he noticed that I had zoned out. He didn't remonstrate my behaviour, however. He just rolled his eyes and reiterated his question, "How did you think of pretending to be a dragon of all things?" I chuckled and moved in closer, smiling down at him,  
>"Simple. Her hair showed small signs of tearing around the temples, along with flakes of silver paint, from a cheap plastic crown. She had a small trace of pink glitter, her trainers had a picture of one of those Disney Princesses, and she had a book filled with fairytales in her rucksack. It was rather easy realising that she wanted to be treated like a Princess. In fact, it was child's play… quite literally."<p>

He grinned and breathed out, as his voice caught on his single world,  
>"Fantastic." I gave him a smile, allowing half of my mouth to twitch upward, and he returned the look. We stared at each other for a moment, and then he laughed and turned towards the kitchen, "Are you hungry yet?"<p>

"Famished."

"Will takeaway do?" he asked, reaching out for the menus pinned to the wall. I caught his elbow before he could leave, however.

"John." He paused and looked back at me, surprised.

"Yes, Sherlock?" I cleared my throat, not sure how to proceed,

"I hope you realise... you mean a great deal to me."

"Really?" he asked, looking more surprised by my voicing my feelings than that I actually had feelings.

"Indeed, a great deal. I would be lost without you. It was only your friendship... your everything, in fact, that saved me these past few months. I know I can never truly reciprocate the human warmth you have shown me, but I hope that - if I spend the rest of my life trying - I might at least pay back even the smallest part of the debt I owe you, John. You mean more to me than I can say." He smiled once more, his entire face frightened as he looked up into my eyes,

"That's good to hear, Sherlock, but you don't owe me a damn thing. We're partners. There is nothing that I given you that you have not given back in full. I hope that we can spend the rest of our days together because I want to bloody well prove that to you."

The silence was heavy in 221b, the tension growing, and then it broke and we simply began to laugh. It started as a giggle, and then it grew and grew, until we were clutching at each for dear life. He embraced me and, for the first time, I wholeheartedly accepted. It was a long time before we finally pulled away, and I gestured for him to sit down.

"I think perhaps I might try cooking tonight. I believe Mrs Hudson did the shopping today." He shot me a dubious look,

"Is that wise, Sherlock?"

"You would be surprised." He grinned, shaking his head,

"Well, let's hope it's a pleasant surprise. Try not to burn down the house-"

"Yes, Mrs Hudson will have a mind to raise the rent." I pulled a book from the shelf, an untouched recipe book, and I was listened to the sound of John tapping on a keyboard behind me.

Blogging again. I wonder what he would say.

I would have to read it later.

**The end.**


	19. Dear Natara

I'm afraid this isn't an update, but it is necessary. I received the most important and touching review of my life, but it was left as a guest review, so I can't contact that person in any other way. I felt this needs to be said.

Dear Natara,

You may never read this, but God do I hope you do. I need to thank you for that review because it meant the world to me, and I am so proud of you for being strong despite what you have been through. Today, you made me remember the reasons I love writing and putting my work out there. I love to give people the same escape that I need when I am writing or reading, and to reach them, and it is so important to me that it did in fact do that. It makes me dreams come true, and that is not an exaggeration. You gave me such a rush of confidence today, changed how I think about my work and how people receive it, and that is such a valuable gift. Telling me something so personal was such a strong and beautiful thing to do, and I hope I haven't embarrassed you by mentioning it - I just had to let you know the impact of your words and I couldn't think of another way.

Now, this is the really important message. You are so strong. I hope you know that. I can't imagine going through what you have, and please please please don't ever think again that taking your life might be the right answer. I'm glad I was even just a tiny factor in helping to stop that this time. I know it's easy for me to say, I'm just a voice on the other side of the internet and I don't know you or what it's like, but I know there are people who would be devastated to lose you. I'm honestly one of those people. The kind words today meant everything to me, they changed my perspective, and it makes me sad to think that someone who could reach out in that way, and make someone feel so good, might be lost. I am rooting for you from this moment onwards, and I don't want you to give up. It gets better. Sherlock's struggle was just a story, but I know that you can win yours - every day and every night - and it won't be fictional. I want you to be strong, because you irrevocably changed my life today, and there are no words to explain how wonderful you are because of that, and because of everything that you are.

Don't give up. I'm always here if you need me, and if anyone else has read this then I hope they know that to.

With all of my love,

Alex


End file.
